Chapter 4 Hotel Ritz, Paris #3
‘So I tried the po-lice. I even telephoned a private investigator I found in the Paris phone book. He wanted five hundred francs to sit where you are and start looking.’ She bit her lip and gave her brother a guilty glance from under her heavily inked eyelids.
Charlie wrote a note in her book. Five hundred francs was a pittance for one of America’s wealthiest families. Wouldn’t they throw everything they had at getting Maisy back? Unless they didn’t want her back…Was Clementine crying crocodile tears?
Mason Bell sighed and said, ‘I telegrammed you not to do anything silly before I got here. Miss James, the bottom line is that my sister has tried the official channels’—he snorted at the word ‘official’—‘and it seems no one in this rid-i-cu-lous city gives a damn that my niece has been missing for over a week.’
A week was a long time.
‘What else did the police say?’ asked Charlie with concern.
Clementine furrowed her brow and started to sob a little. ‘They said they can’t help. I received a tel-e-gram the night Maisy left to say she was having a splendid time and she thought she’d stay at the villa and listen to some more music in the morning.’
Charlie leaned forward. ‘Do you have that telegram?’
Clementine shook her head. ‘No, I gave it to the po-lice. But they just said it proved that Maisy was having a lov-er-ly holiday. Being a grown woman and all, Maisy was allowed to do as she pleased. With a man she only just met, no less.’
A thought occurred to Charlie. ‘Are you sure she’d just met that Swiss Louis at the Ritz the night of the fundraiser?
Could Louis be someone she knows from back home?
’ Charlie thought about the mistruths and ‘accidental meetings’ she’d set up in her early courting years to circumvent the watchful eyes of her parents.
Could Maisy have done the same with her aunt?
Clementine swallowed. ‘The po-lice implied that I was some old-fashioned, overprotective aunt that Maisy pro-bab-ly wanted to relieve herself of.’
‘Now, now…that’s not true. You were only looking out for Maisy’s best int-er-ests.
Like you always have, Clementine.’ Mason patted his twin’s forearm, and Charlie couldn’t help noticing his emphasis on ‘you’.
He was leaving all mention of Maisy’s parents out of the conversation.
To a reporter, the things people didn’t say mattered as much as what they did.
Charlie studied the formal rapport between the siblings and said, ‘I know Inspecteur Bernard at the Metro Police.’ She swallowed as she said his name and kept her voice even as the Bells started to almost deflate at the mention of police.
She signalled to a waiter. ‘Let’s get some refreshments.
We could be here for a bit and you need sustenance. Tea? Coffee?’
‘Black coffee,’ Mason snapped at the waiter.
‘Certainly, and for mademoiselle?’
‘Just a peppermint tea, please.’ Charlie smiled. One bad French coffee a day was enough.
‘Tea, black and weak with a splash of honey if you have it, thank you. You are most kind,’ said Clementine. She was the sweet to her brother’s sour. ‘This is all my fault,’ she sobbed after the waiter had left. Her broad shoulders shook.
‘Nonsense,’ snapped Mason.
It surprised Charlie that Mason did not put the blame squarely at his sister’s feet. She sat back and let silence fill the air, waiting for him to extrapolate.
‘You’ve been a wonderful aunt. Lord knows our sister-in-law wouldn’t take a trip like this for her own daughter.’
Charlie made a note to find out if mother and daughter were estranged.
Mason continued to speak. ‘Our Maisy has a good head on her. No one in Paris aside from Lady Ashworth knows our connections.’
‘That’s all very true,’ said Charlie. ‘But you are staying in the top-floor suite at the Ritz. Anyone you met here would assume you are wealthy. Do you know if Maisy told this Louis fellow anything of her family?’
‘I highly doubt it. She was very discreet. We were at ateliers and the like all day before the fundraiser and she didn’t say so much as a peep. Maisy was more interested in going to the cabaret shows and theatre.’
Charlie kept her chuckle to herself. She had seen Aleksandr and Violet at work and knew from experience that employees and owners at each fashion house knew exactly the people they dressed.
People who ordered haute couture were scarce, vetted by the fact that very few could afford such clothes.
Their predilections, favourite colours, pet names and of course where their money came from were well known to the fashion houses.
Access to funds was discreetly checked through a network of friendly bankers and financiers. Nobody wanted an order to fall through.
Mason coughed, before saying in a slightly agitated voice, ‘This chitchat is all very well and good, but you might as well show Miss James—’
‘I thought we agreed…’ Clementine Bell interrupted and blanched.
‘The police are clearly not going to take it seriously’—he eyed Charlie with suspicion—‘but perhaps we can use the press to find our Maisy. Raise the alarm.’
‘Very well.’ Clementine reached into her bag and placed a handwritten letter in front of Charlie.