CHAPTER 22 #2
‘Not too many on the streets, I hope.’ Violet winked. ‘I want to keep Aleksandr haute couture for now. But we may look at some ready-to-wear pieces down the track. We’ll need more money, more employees.’
‘After last night, I can’t see that’s going to be an issue. I still don’t understand why you don’t quit being a secretary and work with Aleksandr full time. Or open that store selling all the beautiful things you collect. Seriously, Violet, you could do whatever you dream.’
Violet lifted her flute. ‘To dreams coming true.’
‘Salut,’ said Charlie. ‘Now we need to find Hugh Koch.’ She beckoned to the barman and asked if he’d heard of the name.
He snorted. ‘Koch? Koch—he a Boche with a name like that? Ask those Boches at the end of the bar.’ He waved at the huddle of middle-aged men hunched over the far end of the bar, nursing pints.
Galvanised by the bubbles, Charlie wandered over to the group. ‘Excuse me, kindly, could you tell me of a Hugh Koch who has recently moved to Rue Véron?’
The men stopped talking and took in her black kitten heels, black pencil skirt and aqua silk shirt.
A man with a pug face and half a mouthful of teeth slammed his glass on the counter and lifted his chin. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘It’s personal. A family matter.’ There was no way she was letting slip that she was a reporter. That news would travel through the neighbourhood as quickly as a gas leak—and be just as destructive.
The group’s speaker snorted. ‘You don’t sound like you’d be family of Koch.’
‘I represent the family’s interests,’ snapped Charlie, pulling herself up to her full height.
‘Take it easy,’ growled the pug-faced man. ‘If he’s home from the factory, you’ll find him next to mine … thirty-eight. Top floor on the left.’
‘Merci.’ Charlie smiled and turned away.
‘And when you’re done with Koch, you can come next door and conduct some family business with me,’ the ugly man said as his friends roared with laughter.
Charlie flinched but refused to look at the man who’d delivered this insult.
She did not want to give him the satisfaction of her attention and fury.
It saddened her to know she’d crossed the oceans to find the same belittling behaviour and mockery of her sex and appearance in a bar on the other side of the world.
She thought of the photos she’d seen of Maisy Bell, the twinkle of hope in her eyes, the exuberant smile. The college graduate had had the world at her feet and now she was nowhere to be seen. Had her life been taken by a man she’d trusted to show her a little of France’s history?
She elbowed her way back to Violet and said, ‘Bingo. Got the address. Let’s go.’
‘You work fast,’ said Violet as she tipped her head back and skolled the rest of her bubbles.
Charlie grabbed her hand, elbowed her way through the crowd again and pushed open the wooden door to the street. They walked the next block in silence, Charlie still squirming over the German’s comments back at the bar, while Violet counted street numbers.
‘Thirty-eight!’
They surveyed the building. A front door with broken glass, a collection of terracotta pots with rosemary and basil by the entrance, a line of baby clothes and rompers on the first-floor balcony.
They pushed open the door and walked up the curved staircase.
As she climbed the stairs, Charlie considered Auclair, the card belonging to Schmidt beside his dead body—Schmidt’s nephew.
A German nephew who was still missing. Like Maisy Bell.
There was nothing concrete to connect all the cases.
Detective Allard was looking into possible links.
Charlie had seen the red pins on the map on his wall—he was keeping his mind open to every possibility.
She thought of the leaf in her notebook.
The leaves on the shoes. It was a reminder to look for connections.
Theories, coincidences and circumstantial evidence swirled in Charlie’s head as she stopped to catch her breath on the landing.
Schmidt, Koch and Schmidt’s nephew Alain were German.
And Ludwig, whose name sounded German, while Louis did not.
Could they be the same person? Could Alain have booked the limousines under the name Ludwig?
They were both tall, dark and German. It was a stretch … but not implausible.
Perhaps if they could find out where Alain was, he would lead them to the killer.
She hadn’t told George or the police she was paying this unofficial visit. The last time she’d tried to do a doorstop interview, the Cité Metro Police knew her whereabouts. She had emergency back-up when plans went askew.
Charlie glanced at Violet, who was puffing slightly from the stairs. She shouldn’t have dragged her into this. George really would send Charlie packing if she put Violet Carthage in danger.
Charlie held a protective hand up to stop Violet passing her on the landing. ‘You should go downstairs. I’ve changed my mind—I think it best to do this interview alone.’
‘What?’ Violet looked at Charlie like she was crazy. ‘And leave you to greet a strange man at his door alone?’
‘It’s just a standard interview. I doorstop strange men all over Paris every month. It’s a routine part of my job.’
‘We both know this is far from a standard interview, Charlie,’ Violet said softly.
‘I know you very much want to nail these homicide stories to prove you are a great reporter. To earn George’s respect.
But guess what?’ Violet threw her hands in the air.
‘You already have it. You’re a great reporter: intuitive, nuanced, and you submit clean copy. ’
‘Sounds like you’ve been reading my report card,’ Charlie joked. ‘I’m on some kind of weird unofficial probation, you know that. I just need this interview to go well.’
Violet’s voice dropped. ‘George is worried about you after you ended up in hospital chasing a story. He feels responsible.’ She touched Charlie’s cheek. ‘He’s just looking out for you. We all are.’
‘The Maisy Bell story …’ Charlie gritted her teeth and clenched her fists in frustration.
‘I lost it. I let it go and now it’s like everyone’s forgotten about her.
They said she went with a man freely to visit that villa, like that exonerates him somehow.
But she never came back. Why do men get treated so lightly?
All the people we’ve spoken to seem to think it was Maisy’s fault.
’ Charlie counted the excuses on her fingers.
‘Her skirt was too short. She wanted to be famous. She wanted to have a fling with a real man. Just another silly American tourist losing her head over Paris.’
Violet put her hand over Charlie’s and clasped it tight. ‘I understand. Really, I do. Maisy could have been you or me. God knows I’ve been to some strange houses with even stranger men since I’ve been in Paris. You stayed in a strange house with a strange man last night.’
‘Violet—’
‘All I’m saying is that it’s not Maisy Bell’s fault she trusted a man. What are we even doing on this planet if we can’t trust? If we can’t make connections? Now, let’s go do this interview. I’m staying right beside you, like you were for me last night. Besides, don’t you need me to translate?’
‘Thank you,’ said Charlie as she straightened her skirt and approached the apartment. She knocked on the door, stood back and waited.
Nothing.
After a minute passed, Charlie knocked again, this time louder and faster.
A barrage of words came from the other side of the wooden door as chains rattled and locks turned. The door was yanked open and a middle-aged head with day-old beard, watery red eyes and jowly cheeks poked out from behind it.
‘Ja? Guten tag?’
‘Good afternoon. I’m Charlie James and this is Violet Carthage. Are you Herr Hugh Koch?’
He eyed Charlie with suspicion and his confusion grew when he saw Violet standing beside her.
‘We were wondering if you could help us, please? We’re looking for someone. Do you know Alain Schmidt?’ She held a copy of Carl Schmidt’s business card up so he could see it. ‘Alain is the nephew of Carl Schmidt.’
The door didn’t move and he looked at them blankly.
Violet stepped forward and translated Charlie’s words into German. She took the copy of the card from Charlie and passed it to the man, who eased the door open a little wider as he took the paper. Koch nodded, indicating he recognised the name.
Violet asked how he knew the man.
Her eyes widened as he answered and she turned to Charlie. ‘Koch is also an uncle of Alain’s—your missing man. On his mother’s side, though—hence the different name.’
‘Ask him if he’s spent any time in Nice lately? With either of the Schmidt gentlemen.’
The bewildered man shook his head. He looked at Charlie and Violet and started to close the door but Violet put her hands up and spoke in rapid German. She seemed to be pleading with him. Koch held the door and looked at her expectantly.
‘Have you got his old address?’ Violet asked Charlie. ‘It might help.’
Charlie reached into her satchel and produced the address from the reference on the identity card Allard had shown her, handing it to the man. Koch’s brow furrowed before his shoulders sagged.
He spoke again to Violet, who offered some soothing words. When she was done, she said out of the corner of her mouth, ‘He’s asking where you got this stuff. I told him Alain owed you money and disappeared. I may have implied there was a bit of a bond between you two and you were heartbroken.’
‘Violet,’ hissed Charlie.
The man studied Charlie. Evidently, she did have the look of someone with a broken heart, as he started to speak.
Violet translated: ‘Alain usually came for dinner on a Sunday night. Roast with potatoes. Sounds delicious. Alain hasn’t appeared these past few weeks—Herr Koch thought it was because Alain had started hanging around with his criminal friend Hans again.’
Koch waved his arm at Charlie, then pointed at her face before looking her up and down.