CHAPTER 5
CITé METRO POLICE STATION, PARIS
Charlie James sat in Inspecteur Beno?t Bernard’s new corner office at the Cité Metro Police Station, which looked over an avenue of plane trees into a green square below.
She could make out a small boy of about five or six flying a red kite from a long string attached to a stick and his mother standing nearby, rocking an oversized stroller.
On second thoughts, the woman looked young—so perhaps the children were with their au pair.
The inspecteur’s window was open for fresh air—what was it with the French and their obsession with fresh air?
—and delighted giggles drifted up from the park.
The unfettered laughter was a stark contrast to Inspecteur Bernard’s austere office.
He sat at a plain oak desk with archive folders neatly labelled on bookshelves behind him.
‘They promoted you, Inspecteur. Nice corner view.’ She smiled.
‘Yes, well, it is better to have more natural light when looking at photos and evidence, that is certaine.’ His brow furrowed slightly as the giggles from outside crept closer and he tilted his head.
‘There is more traffic and noise being next to a park. I can close the window if you find it distracting?’ Ever professional, he made to stand.
‘No need, Inspecteur, I think it’s lovely.’ She blushed, instantly regretting her words. It wasn’t like her to sound unprofessional. Perhaps her time off had made her soft.
‘You look well, Mademoiselle James. Still, I’m surprised to see you back at work so soon. You had a nasty shock. Scared us all.’ He averted his eyes and straightened the already perfect pile of paper sitting to his left.
‘I can assure you, I’m fighting fit. In fact, I’m here about a story.’
The inspecteur exhaled and leaned back in his chair.
‘What a pity,’ he said. ‘I was thinking this was a social visit.’ His lips were pursed and his voice dry as a martini.
His body shifted and stiffened as though he were on alert.
Charlie could hardly blame the inspecteur; the last story she worked on ended with one person dead and herself in hospital.
Still, she needed to keep going before he clammed up.
Charlie placed a photo of the pretty young blonde on the desk between them.
The woman’s makeup was immaculate, with long lashes, thick eyeliner and pouting lips.
She looked like a young Greta Garbo. ‘This is twenty-two-year-old Texan Maisy Bell—although you already know that.’ Charlie made extended eye contact, but the inspecteur revealed nothing, only swallowed, clasped his elegant hands together and placed them on his lap.
‘I had a visit at the Ritz this morning with her very concerned aunt, Clementine Bell. She claims Maisy met a charming Swiss man—Louis—at a drinks reception last week and agreed to an excursion with him.’ Charlie flipped through her notebook.
‘Miss Bell said of her niece, “Maisy told me to have the day to myself as she was going to visit a villa right near the one Napoleon gave Josephine.” Saint-Cloud, I believe? Apparently this gentleman was Swiss, but Clementine was uncertain about that—his accent could have been German or Dutch.’
‘Mademoiselle Bell wouldn’t be the first person with strong feelings about foreigners in this city,’ he said, voice still dry. ‘Go on.’
‘Of course,’ said Charlie, who did not want to be lured into a discussion of the war.
She started to read from her notes. ‘Maisy’s aunt said the Swiss gentleman, who only introduced himself as Louis, no last name, offered to show Maisy his villa and to listen to some Wagner—a composer they both admired. ’
‘Sounds suitably dramatic,’ said the inspecteur, who gave the impression he was not hearing any new information.
‘Maisy apparently sent a telegram indicating she was staying the night on her visit, imploring her aunt not to worry.’
‘Yes. I’m aware.’ The inspecteur waited politely for new information.
‘Well.’ Charlie leaned forward to express her urgency.
‘Maisy has not been seen or heard of for over a week. No message to her aunt, who she’s travelling with.
Nothing to the concierge—no word! You don’t think it is unusual to have a beautiful, young American tourist …
’ She waved the photo. ‘… just disappear?’
The inspecteur leaned over and studied the photograph. ‘If you could please wait here for un moment, I’ll get the officer who is overseeing this case to come and speak with you. Perhaps he can give you the answers you seek.’
‘Merci, Inspecteur.’
Bernard left his office door open and Charlie sat, waiting.
After the first minute, she checked her gold watch and was tempted to stand and have a peek at some of the contents in the neatly arranged folders and piles of paper on the inspecteur’s desk, just to see if there was anything else worth reporting.
Instead, she sat on her hands and continued to wait for the promised officer.
After the third minute, the inspecteur returned with a squat, dark-haired man in his late twenties, whose stance and demeanour reminded her of a bulldog. Charlie tapped her pen on her notepad deliberately to convey her impatience to the inspecteur.
‘Officer Rose, allow me to introduce Mademoiselle James from The Times.’
After hands were shaken and platitudes exchanged, Inspecteur Bernard sat behind his desk, but the young officer remained standing.
‘Mademoiselle James, allow me to save you some time and from potential embarrassment pursuing this story.’
‘Embarrassment?’ Charlie shot Inspecteur Bernard a look that she hoped left no doubt that she was unimpressed with this young officer’s opening gambit.
Officer Rose continued, ‘I will tell you, as I have told Mademoiselle Bell numerous times, there is no evidence to warrant diverting precious Metro Police resources into a missing person case at this time.’
‘It’s been over a week!’ cried Charlie, appalled.
Inspecteur Bernard picked up a shiny red apple from beside his neat pile of paper and polished it with his cuff before putting it back exactly as it sat before.
He said in an even voice, ‘Mademoiselle James is a fine reporter—we need to listen to her questions as we do not want something untrue appearing in the press, Officer Rose.’ His tone was a clear reprimand.
Officer Rose sighed and all but rolled his eyes. ‘Mademoiselle James, I will not insult your intelligence by dismissing your questions. But there are several reasons why I believe you are wasting your time with this story.’
‘Such as?’ Charlie jutted out her chin, unsure whether to be insulted or flattered.
‘Firstly, Mademoiselle Maisy Bell is twenty-two. A young woman certainly, but a woman nonetheless, who willingly went on an excursion with a charming Swiss man to a remote villa away from the prying eyes of her aunt who was with Maisy as her chaperone. She sent a telegram even, letting the older Mademoiselle Bell know she would be extending her visit.’
‘Extending it by one night. She was meant to be back at the Ritz for a formal dinner with her aunt. A table for two had been booked for 9 p.m., her dress laundered and laid out on her bed ready for her return. There’s been nothing since then.’ Charlie seethed.
Officer Rose waved his hand at the window in a dramatic gesture and said patronisingly, ‘How many foreigners do you think come to Paris—the city of love—seeking their own holiday love story? Saint-Cloud, if Mademoiselle really went there, is pretty in summer. The perfect spot pour un beau couple d’amoureux. ’
Charlie pursed her lips, doing little to disguise her distaste as the officer continued.
‘People come here and become giddy with the parks, the bars. This, Mademoiselle James, is not uncommon with Paris. Tourists come here and fall in love with the city. It makes them giddy and then they transfer that onto any number of our charming locals.’ Officer Rose puffed his chest out a little as if he were the prime exhibit of such charming locals.
Inspecteur Bernard started to speak—if only to quiet his colleague—in a low voice.
‘Unfortunately, many visitors do not have time to see that Parisians have the same foibles, arrogance’—he glanced at his junior colleague and gave Charlie an apologetic grimace—‘and neuroses that other people have. The charm of the city is like a spell … This is the romance of Paris. It’s a city of intrigue and reinvention. ’
Charlie agreed with the inspecteur. Hadn’t creating a new life been the very reason she’d moved to Paris? Is that what young Maisy Bell was hoping to do too?
The inspecteur maintained eye contact as Charlie shifted in her seat, aware she was wearing a flattering modern pencil skirt and silk shirt with a pussy bow courtesy of Aleksandr and Violet. If Inspecteur Bernard noticed Charlie’s upgraded work wardrobe, he was too polite to mention it.
‘So what you are telling me, Officer Rose, is that tourists come to Paris and lose their heads with love?’ She furiously underlined love in her notebook.
Officer Rose blithely nodded his agreement, as though pleased the lady reporter sitting in front of him was finally seeing sense.
‘Love, lust. Curiosity … However you wish to explain it. Sadly, I do not have the police resources in our general department to dedicate to finding every young woman who chooses to have a romance while they are in Paris. Maisy Bell allegedly went with full consent to a villa in the area of Saint-Cloud with a Swiss man, Louis. Furthermore, she was wearing’—he referred to the notes he had in his hand—‘a short blue skirt with red plaid top and black Mary Janes.’
This conversation with Officer Rose felt tired. Misogynistic. ‘I am aware of what Miss Bell was wearing. Are you implying that she somehow courted danger by choosing to wear a short skirt?’ Charlie was becoming increasingly agitated by the assumptions of this young police officer.