CHAPTER 17
HOTEL RITZ, PARIS
It had been a month since Maisy Bell had allegedly taken a day trip from Paris to a villa in Saint-Cloud and never returned.
A week since the driver Jouet had been discovered with a bullet in the base of his skull.
Not even a day since a man in a burgundy velvet suit had been found wrapped in a shroud.
Charlie had now had two major stories land on her desk since she’d returned to work and both had gone cold.
The Jouet case was not closed—yet—but the leads were tenuous. Detective Allard had returned to his station in Versailles and presumably moved on to the Neuilly case and other pressing crimes that needed solving.
This morning, Charlie James had reluctantly made her way to the Hotel Ritz after receiving the distressing news that the Bells were sailing for home from Inspecteur Bernard.
The Maisy Bell case had been officially closed, unsolved.
The American Embassy, the S?reté nationale of Paris and the Cité Metro Police had all reached an agreement that the case of the missing American woman in Paris was a mystery.
There were no facts to justify further investigation from the authorities.
Charlie, however, was not going to quit. She would persist in her own time to tease out clues to the whereabouts of the missing young woman. It would be her silent gift to the Bells.
At 10 a.m., Charlie sat on a taupe velvet lounge in the foyer of the Hotel Ritz, observing people going about their everyday business.
Porters wheeled suitcases for those checking in and those beginning their journey home.
Efficient shoes click-clacked across marble and guests milled about in their travel linen, ringing bells at the concierge desk, impatient to be checked into their rooms. These people assumed their small tasks would amount to a satisfying day.
Assumed they would wake up and do similar again the next.
Just like Jouet, who had woken up and taken his post outside Palais Garnier to drive a limousine every weekday for the past fifteen years.
And yet not a single person could tell her how he’d ended up face down in a forest outside Tours.
A single, mundane fare ended with tragedy.
She sighed. Where was Maisy Bell? Charlie shared the police’s fears that the young American’s life had ended. But without trails, without any leads, what could be done?
Charlie put her fears aside, clasped her hands together for comfort and tried to think of what to say to the man and woman sitting opposite her.
Mason and Clementine Bell were dressed in dark travelling suits with their gloves and hats arranged neatly on the cushions beside them.
Mason was rigid, hands in his lap, whereas Clementine slouched into the cushions and intermittently dabbed at her red nose and teary eyes with an embroidered handkerchief.
Beside their sofa stood a trolley piled with monogrammed brown trunks.
Charlie’s stomach sank when she saw the top one had a clear gold MAB stamp. Maisy Anna Bell.
Charlie tried to imagine how hard it must have been for Clementine to retrieve all of Maisy’s smalls, her ballgowns, sundresses, pieces of jewellery and makeup scattered across her suite and gather it into her monogrammed travelling trunks.
It was an act of optimism and hope that these sweet belongings would one day be reunited with their owner in America.
As she looked at the deflated Bells, Charlie tried to offer some consolation.
‘I’m sorry that you’re leaving Paris without answers. The sightings of Maisy continue to come into our office—often with demands for money, I’m afraid.’
‘Scoundrels, the lot of them. Preying on a family’s loss like that. Seeking money.’ Mason spat his words out as he shook his head.
‘Agreed,’ said Charlie as she studied him closely, then looked at his sister. ‘I’ll be chasing any new leads with the Metro Police.’ Though not Officer Rose, she thought. Maybe Detective Allard would help.
‘Fat lot of good that will do you,’ sobbed Clementine as she pressed the corner of her handkerchief into her eye.
Brother and sister seemed in genuine anguish and Charlie’s gut told her that their feelings were sincere. They were devastated by the loss of Maisy.
Although, the investigative reporter in her still entertained the possibility that the Texans had arranged the kidnapping of their niece and it was a bungled job.
Or, if she followed the lead to more sinister avenues, brother and sister orchestrated Maisy’s kidnapping, and possibly even her death, so they would have full control of the company when their brother died. A death that sounded imminent.
To what end? As heirs to the biggest oil company in America, the siblings would have substantial wealth. And, rather sadly, Charlie thought, neither of them had loved ones of their own to share their wealth with or pass it on to.
Mason may have been gruff and Clementine insipid at times, but neither struck her as being that short-sighted.
Eventually, it was Clementine who gathered herself up on the sofa and spoke.
‘Maisy’s mother, Dolly, sent me this letter to pass on to the French po-lice.
’ She slipped an envelope from her purse.
‘Now, I know you are going to ask me why Dolly did not pass this to the authorities herself. Well, she did—she gave the US Embassy a copy. I dare say the French po-lice have a copy, too, but they have said there is nothing more they can do. This feels like new evidence to me. I wanted to stay—’
‘This letter proves nothing,’ Mason cut in. ‘Only that Maisy’s story was true.’ He gave Charlie a pointed look as Clementine handed over the letter.
Charlie slipped the paper—scented with perfume—out of the personalised Ritz stationery and admired the embossed R in the corner of the envelope.
She opened her mouth to speak but Clementine explained, ‘Miss Georgina was Maisy’s roommate at Barnard. Her best friend since holidays in the Hamptons.’
Charlie turned the envelope over and saw it was addressed to a Miss Georgina Rockefeller in New York.
As Charlie unfolded the letter, Clementine came to sit beside her.
Dear Gigi,
It’s been four days in Paris and I’ve strolled the boulevards of Saint-Germain-des-Prés and the halls of the Louvre, dined at Circ, and I have tickets for Dukas’s Ariane and Bluebeard at L’Opéra in a few days.
The French men are too easy with their compliments and bore me with their sad Sartre and Baudelaire quotes.
The bookshops are a treat. It just so happens there was a soiree at the Hotel Ritz this evening.
I must confess perhaps I drank an extra glass of Krug—but it was all for you, my Gigi, as I know how you love your champagne.
I met a tall, charming German man with a quick wit and high intelligence called Ludwig.
Ludwig—as he insisted I call him—is an admirer of Wagner like myself.
Perhaps we will expand on that as I extend my Wagnerian repertoire—one can only hope?
Anyway, we shall soon know the overlap, as my new German friend has invited me to visit his chateau.
Apparently it is right near the famous mansion that Josephine was given by Napoleon, near Saint-Cloud.
We leave in the morning and I shall be back for a formal dinner with Clementine in the evening.
It’s quite a lot to squeeze in, but when in Paris, right?
I’m assuming by now you are well home from Long Island and ensconced in city life. Do send me salacious stories from NYC. Much love, M xx
‘It’s this bit.’ Clementine tapped the third paragraph furiously. ‘Isn’t that right, Mason? Look, Miss James … Charlie. Look!’
Charlie’s head shot up. ‘I thought you said the man Maisy went to Saint-Cloud with was Swiss, and his name was Louis.’
Clementine’s cheeks grew red. ‘Well, that’s what he told me when Maisy disappeared to order a bottle of Sancerre and some brie. Clearly, he had a different story for my niece.’
‘It appears that way,’ said Charlie, her chest tightening. Had the Bells fallen for an old-time swindler? Had they been so intoxicated by the romance of Paris they took everyone at their word?
‘The police, the embassy and even my brother Jimmy have closed this case. They don’t want Maisy remembered for being a missing tourist. None of us do.
The police think Ludwig is probably another fake name.
What else can I do? I don’t want this over.
I don’t want to go home without Maisy.’ She threw her hands up in frustration.
Mason sat there tugging at his blazer sleeve. ‘Clementine, our driver will be here in a moment.’ He gestured to the porter to push their bags out to their limousine.
Charlie held Clementine’s clammy, pudgy hand. ‘Look, I can’t promise anything as I’ve been moved to other stories.’
‘Yes, I see, two men murdered.’ Clementine shuddered. ‘French men. More important,’ she said with uncharacteristic vehemence.
‘Clementine.’ Mason had stood now and was holding out his hand to assist his sister.
‘One minute, Mason,’ she snapped as she turned to Charlie. ‘I don’t care what you think of me. I know you are a very busy reporter. But please, I beg you, if there is anything in this letter that helps … Ludwig, Louis, whoever he is, if you could please just—’
‘Clementine!’ huffed Mason as a porter stood beside their sofa, white-knuckled and nervous.
‘Mademoiselle Bell, if you please? Your car.’ The porter gestured towards the entrance, where a black limousine filled the driveway.
Charlie stood and hoisted Clementine to her feet before kissing her on both cheeks and tucking the letter into her satchel.
It was true, she was overwhelmed with the two murder investigations.
However, she had vowed not to give up on Maisy Bell.
A young woman in Paris who was yet to make her mark in the world.
A woman with dreams and aspirations outside her family expectations.
A woman who had lost her voice. Who had possibly been taken and held against her will.
A woman who … Charlie didn’t want to speculate further.
Instead, she grabbed Clementine’s hand and held it between her own as Mason strode towards the door.
‘Clementine, I promise you, I’ll try to find some answers. I’m not sure how …’ she faltered.
‘I know you will.’ Clementine put her other hand over Charlie’s and held it for a beat as they looked into each other’s eyes, each a well of hurt, guilt and loss.
‘Thank you, Miss James,’ said Clementine as she released her hands and quickly kissed Charlie on the cheek.
She picked up her hat and gloves and followed Mason out towards the car, looking over her shoulder at Charlie with a furrowed brow.
As Clementine’s portly figure swept through the revolving doorway, Charlie made a silent pact to herself that, someday, she would find out what happened to young Maisy Bell. She would bring Clementine Bell and her family the closure they deserved.
A young woman’s life was so quickly bumped from front-page news, but it couldn’t be bumped from Charlie’s heart.