CHAPTER 27
SAINT-CLOUD CENTRAL SQUARE
Autumnal skies. Low clouds. Cobblestones scattered with golden leaves.
Charlie James sat waiting for Inspecteur Bernard at one of the finer bistros of Saint-Cloud during a busy lunch hour.
The bistro was tucked into the corner of a cobblestoned town square with the Town Hall perched proudly at one end and the police station and courthouse at the other.
From the nearest window to her little table she could see the plane trees that lined the square’s perimeter like living sculptures.
Market stalls had been set up in the middle of the square, selling local produce and refreshments.
People sipped on wine or pulled apart crêpes oozing dark chocolate.
Little boys kicked a soccer ball against a stone wall and their parents laughed and refilled their cups as the wind started to beat its way up from the valley.
Charlie was exhausted, though she was buoyed by the simplicity of families going about daily life.
Sometimes, when she was deep in her stories, she forgot that the reason she reported on the darkness—chased it—was so people like those warming their hands on porcelain cups could move through their lives informed and cautious but happy.
She considered the Bell family and how lonely they must be. There was nothing she could do to bring back Maisy, but she had given them closure. The Bells deserved that.
A man not much older than Charlie wrapped his arm around a woman with a baby nestled against her chest. He kissed her cheek and tugged a wayward curl from her face, placing it gently behind her ear.
Charlie remembered the look Aleksandr had given Violet at the opera.
Simple moments of respect, longing and love.
She remembered Allard’s lips at her throat, his hands in her hair, and shivered.
Those had been illicit moments, not for the bright midday markets or the streets of Saint-Cloud.
She closed her eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like to have someone share her everyday life: shopping for trinkets; a kiss at the markets washed down with wine.
Her life had no room for idle time, days spent meandering markets or stores.
When she’d come to Paris, she’d imagined she would have a postcard life.
A balanced life. Violet made sure Charlie squeezed pockets of joy in, but if it weren’t for her best friend, Charlie would just work.
She always felt just one failed story away from George sending her packing, back to Sydney.
The newsroom chewed people up. Family remained a distant concept.
Take George’s wife, Mrs Roberts. Charlie had never met her.
George didn’t mix social and work events and discouraged his staff from doing the same.
But watching the man and woman laughing, Charlie realised she wanted to create her own version of balance. She was done with her whole life being dictated by her career. It had brought her to Paris but it was time to enjoy more of that beautiful city.
Charlie squeezed her hands and forced herself to focus on her job right now. Paris would have to wait.
The restaurant itself was the epitome of provincial cosiness: fireplace in the far corner, red-checked tablecloths and rustic breadbaskets with a huge, chrome cheese trolley parked near the waiter’s station.
Inspecteur Bernard arrived, removing his hat, scarf and coat and placing them neatly on the hooks provided by the front door but keeping his satchel. This was a good sign. He waved at Charlie and a waiter led him to their table.
‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle James,’ Bernard said as he primly shook her hand, and Charlie wondered how many stories it would take for him to call her Charlie again and peck both cheeks.
‘Bonjour, Inspecteur. Thank you for meeting me in person. There’s so much to go over in this trial—’
‘Understood. I know you take your responsibility seriously and will not report anything that will influence a jury during the trial.’
‘I’ll do my best, but you and I both know we can’t control what the sentence will be. Or what the judgement reads.’
‘Even so …’ He let the words linger as he gave her a pointed look. ‘Wine?’
‘Oui. I think we could both use a drink, given the circumstances.’ The inspecteur ordered a half-carafe of white burgundy and when it came, it was accompanied by a plate of paté, cornichons and pickled onions.
As the inspecteur poured wine into their glasses, Charlie smeared some paté onto a slice of baguette and put a tiny cornichon on top before biting the bread in half.
Inspecteur Bernard said, ‘I wanted to share with you the details of our interview with Fischer after the debacle in the courtroom.’
Following Fischer’s mention of Maisy Bell, the court had erupted and the magistrate had ordered the accused be taken away for further questioning and investigation.
Charlie gulped. The inspecteur was back on the case due to the Maisy Bell link, but why was he being so open?
‘The accused could not be more polite and forthcoming. You saw he was wearing Jean Auclair’s braces? Well, we found Mademoiselle Bell’s shoes—size eight—stored neatly on a shoe tree in Fischer’s wardrobe. He denies it, but we have no doubt he murdered her too.’
Fischer was a serial killer. A monster. Bluebeard.
Charlie James had committed the cardinal sin of journalism.
She had been unable to keep her objectivity and the Maisy Bell story had gotten under her skin—she’d taken it personally.
The young Texan graduate had dreamed of having her name in lights and being a household name in her own right; now her name was on everyone’s lips for all the wrong reasons.
The American Tourist in Paris. Maisy Bell was famous.
‘Thank you for sharing this with me.’
‘Not at all.’ He batted her gratitude away, looking embarrassed. ‘I have images to show you. Off the record, oui?’
Charlie now understood why Inspecteur Bernard had booked the table perched on its own, far from prying eyes and ears. She nodded as her stomach tightened. She pushed the plate to one side, no longer hungry.
The inspecteur slipped a photograph of the late Maisy Bell out of an envelope he’d pulled from his satchel.
The inspecteur grimaced and said, ‘Très désolé.’
Maisy Bell presented just as her aunt, Clementine, had described her: the very sartorial picture of an American tourist in Paris.
Charlie took in the brown sports visor, white gloves and matching handbag, red plaid top, sky-blue skirt, white frilled socks and her new, black patent leather Mary Janes straight from the shelves of Galeries Lafayette.
Only in this photo she looked asleep. Charlie shivered.
‘So Maisy was killed the day she went missing?’
‘Yes. In his interview, Fischer went into great detail. He showed her his villa, they talked Wagner over cigarettes and coffee—though Mademoiselle Bell didn’t drink hers, preferring a cold glass of milk.
We telegrammed her parents, Dolly and Jimmy Bell, to let them know we exhumed her body from the villa. ’
‘Poor Clementine,’ Charlie said softly. ‘She loved Maisy.’
‘As police, we are obligated to deal directly with the next of kin. However, given the exceptional circumstances, I also telegrammed Clementine Bell, as she was our first point of contact. I passed on the condolences of the Metro Police.’ He dropped his head and his shoulders sagged as he tipped his wineglass side to side, the golden liquid swirling in his glass.
The rhythm was comforting and they both watched his wine dance with the light.
‘Understood. Where was Maisy found?’ Charlie asked softly.
The inspecteur took a sip of his wine and placed his glass neatly on the checked tablecloth as he replied, ‘Buried under the front steps of the villa.’
Charlie shivered. How could someone be so callous that they could step over a dead body for weeks without blinking?
Bluebeard.
‘Did he show remorse?’
‘He seems to show no remorse for killing four men. But he couldn’t bear to speak Bell’s name in court, remember?
‘It appears that when Fischer was young Alain Schmidt’s cellmate in Germany, they formed quite the friendship.
Fischer concocted a plan to raise money to live his dream life in France via ransoms and used Schmidt to be his lackey.
Schmidt had left school early and had never been much of a student.
Not a young man with his wits about him, if you like.
‘It was Schmidt who botched the ransom drop in Luxembourg Gardens.’
‘That makes sense, if you think about the childlike handwriting.’
‘Oui. Fischer got angry with Schmidt on the day Maisy came to visit from Paris. He kept interrupting them when they were listening to Wagner, and again when they were walking in the garden. According to Fischer, it was Schmidt who took it out on Maisy, knocking her down the staircase.’
‘What?’
‘A likely story. By all accounts, Alain Schmidt was a peaceful young man whose only fault was falling in with the wrong crowd. It’s clear Fischer’s trying to pin the blame on his hapless accomplice who is, conveniently, no longer alive to deny it.
But Maisy Bell did not die of a fall. She was shot. Fischer is a murderer and a liar.’
Charlie shook her head. ‘But when Maisy died, the hope of a ransom drop remained alive?’
‘Exactly. Schmidt tried to make it right. He wrote the note and nearly got himself caught.’
‘It was hardly the work of a man who listens to Wagner.’
‘Eventually, it seems Fischer decided he needed to take care of his sole witness, and he killed Schmidt too. Shot to the back of the head, like all the others.’
‘But what about those others—Jouet, Mael Albu and Auclair?’
‘Perhaps it was a bid for money? With Maisy the heiress dead, Fischer needed to lower his sights, find money wherever he could to make rent. He had already served time, and it appeared he had no consistent employment records.’