Chapter Nineteen
A-HOO-GAAA!
Elizabeth braced her palm against the seat as the driver stamped on his brakes, an autobus swinging out from its stop ahead.
“Eh! Regarde un peu!” He half rose from his seat, flinging his hand out of the open window.
The moustachioed conductor leaned out on his pole strap as the autobus strayed across their path. “Et toi! Apprends à conduire!”
The taxi driver yanked the steering wheel and manoeuvred around the autobus with such exaggerated theatrics he could have been on the stage.
Both men continued trading insults through the window as they passed, the autobus driver joining in with a blast of his horn and a running commentary on the shortcomings of the taxi driver’s skills, his parentage, and Paris traffic in general.
With the autobus in his rear-view mirror, the taxi driver settled back into his seat as though nothing had passed between them.
Elizabeth released her grip on the seat and settled back against the leather upholstery.
Pippin had still been in bed when she’d telephoned him that morning. Not that his manservant had said as much.
Mr Westcott is not receiving calls at present, were his exact words.
Which could only mean one thing in Pippin’s world … he was still nursing the after-effects of the night before.
The manservant had taken her name and number and assured her Mr Westcott would telephone the moment he was at liberty to do so, then rung off before she could ask when that might be.
Liberty, as it turned out, arrived a little after ten.
Lady Elizabeth. Pippin’s voice had come through the receiver an octave lower than she remembered, as though it had been dragged from under the covers along with the rest of him. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?
Her suggestion of an early lunch had been met with regret. Pippin, it seemed, was already engaged elsewhere. Such a shame, she’d told him, today being the only free day she had before her return to England … the fib delivered with just enough disappointment to be convincing.
Well, that won’t do at all. How about coffee instead? The Café de la Paix, say, midday?
Elizabeth reached for her bag as the taxi slowed, drawing to a halt outside the Café de la Paix.
“Café de la Paix, mademoiselle.” The driver turned in his seat, one arm hooked over the back of it, all trace of his earlier irritation gone.
“Merci, monsieur.” Elizabeth drew the coins from her purse and pressed them into his palm.
“Merci beaucoup, mademoiselle.” His lips curved into a smile as he slipped the coins into the money pouch at his belt.
She spotted Pippin the moment she stepped out onto the pavement.
Immaculate in pale grey, a crisp linen handkerchief in his breast pocket, and a pair of smoked-glass spectacles perched on his nose, despite the shade.
Elizabeth threaded her way between the tables, sidestepping a waiter balancing a loaded tray on his shoulder.
Pippin rose as she approached, setting his cigarette in the ashtray. “Lady Elizabeth.” He removed the spectacles, his eyes squinting against the light. “I must apologise in advance. I’m afraid I’m feeling a little under par this morning … or afternoon, perhaps I should say.”
“Given the hour, I’d say afternoon is the safer wager.”
“Spoken like a woman who knows how to play her odds.” He drew back the chair beside his own and saw her into it before returning to his seat, slipping the spectacles back on as he sat.
The waiter was at their table before Pippin had raised a hand.
“Monsieur Westcott.” He drew out the name with the familiarity of long acquaintance, his gaze flicking briefly over the smoked spectacles. “The usual?”
“Marcel, you read my mind.” Pippin glanced across at her. “And for you, Lady Elizabeth? They do a very respectable café crème.”
“Then a café crème it is.”
“Et un café crème pour madame,” Pippin relayed, and Marcel inclined his head and was gone.
Pippin retrieved his cigarette and turned towards her, his eyes unreadable behind the darkened lenses. “I never did discover where you disappeared to that night at the soirée. One minute you were there, and the next, gone. Something like that could give a chap a complex, you know.”
“I’m quite sure your recovery was swift.” She couldn’t imagine anything giving Pippin Westcott a complex.
“I was wounded, Lady Elizabeth, you didn’t even say good-bye.
” He tapped his cigarette against the side of the ashtray, his expression bearing not the slightest hint of offence.
“My grandmother would have a thing or two to say about the manners of the modern young lady. Though, in fairness, she has a thing or two to say about everything.”
“And what’s her verdict on the modern young man? I can’t imagine you’ve escaped her gaze.”
“Escaped?” Pippin took a fine drag of his cigarette before extinguishing it in the ashtray.
“My dear Lady Elizabeth, I am her principal field of study. My grandmother regards the modern young man as proof the country has gone to the dogs, and me as her supporting evidence. No profession she’d care to name, no wife, and living in Paris of all places.
” He pursed his lips and sent a perfect O-ring of smoke drifting up towards the awning. “A place filled with–”
“Foreigners?” Elizabeth arched a brow.
“Lady Elizabeth, you read my mind. Is there no end to your talents?”
Marcel returned, tray shoulder-high, and set their coffees down before them. “Et voilà. Un café crème pour madame.”
Elizabeth drew her cup towards her.
“Café noir pour monsieur … et your usual.” He placed a glass beside the coffee cup, a raw egg yolk sitting in a dark slick of Worcestershire sauce.
So that was Monsieur Westcott’s usual … a prairie oyster. Not the coffee. The cure.
Pippin raised the glass to her in salute. “Down the hatch.”
He threw back the contents in one gulp, a shudder passing through him as he set the empty glass down on the table.
“The key is not to sip, you see. Never sip. The prairie oyster does not reward the faint of heart.”
Pippin flipped open the silver cigarette case beside the ashtray and held it out to her. Elizabeth shook her head, and he took one for himself.
He slipped his hand inside his jacket pocket and retrieved a black matchbook. He struck one of the matches and touched the flame to the tip of his cigarette, shaking the match out before dropping it into the ashtray.
Elizabeth’s gaze settled on the velvety black cover, a single embossed moth at its centre.
“That’s an elegant little matchbook, isn’t it?” She nodded towards it. “Though no name, which seems rather odd. Most establishments can’t wait to advertise themselves.”
“Ah.” Pippin picked it up and turned it over between his fingers, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. “That, Lady Elizabeth, is rather the point. Some establishments prefer a more … how shall one say … discerning clientele.”
“How wonderfully mysterious.” She leaned forward in her chair.
“Imagine the best champagne in Paris and the deepest pockets in Europe, all under one roof.”
“And does this establishment have a name, or is that a secret too?”
“Le Frisson.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “Though I’d take care where you repeat it.”
“What is it, exactly, that Le Frisson offers?”
“Now that would be telling, Lady Elizabeth.” Pippin settled back in his chair. “But what I will say is that its members guard their pleasures jealously … and their losses even more so.”
Le Frisson was a gambling club.
She recalled her earlier telephone conversation with Cybil, about Le Figaro’s society column … an English lady whose devotion to her charitable committees is matched only by her devotion to the baize. It would certainly explain how Lady Davenport came to be in possession of one of their matchbooks.
Elizabeth raised her coffee cup to her lips and took a sip.
“Speaking of losses…” She kept her tone light as she studied him over the rim.
“A friend telephoned this morning about an article in Le Figaro’s society column …
something about an English lady whose devotion to her charitable committees is matched only by her devotion to the baize.
She’s quite convinced they were talking about Lady Davenport. ”
“Then your friend has a sharp eye.” His brows arched as he rolled the tip of his cigarette against the rim of the ashtray.
So, it was Lady Davenport the columnist was referring to.
Pippin retrieved his pocket watch and flipped open the case. “Is that the time? I’d love to stay and chat, but I’m afraid duty calls.” He threw back his coffee and rose to his feet. “It’s been an absolute pleasure catching up. Do give my regards to Clemmi.”
And with a tip of an imaginary hat, he was gone, weaving between the tables towards the boulevard des Capucines.
Duty calls? Such an odd turn of phrase for a man with no profession to speak of. And odder still was the speed of his departure … just the mention of Le Frisson and he couldn’t leave fast enough.
Still, it seemed Cybil had been right about Lady Davenport.
And if the society column was also right, had her gambling debts been the reason for Sir Conrad’s sudden decision to retire?
According to Maggie, the announcement had caught everyone off guard, including Lady Davenport, who’d made her displeasure at leaving Paris perfectly clear on more than one occasion … if her lady’s maid was to be believed.
But would any of it have been reason enough for a wife to murder her husband?
Marcel appeared at the table and placed a small silver saucer on the table in front of her. “Pour vous, mademoiselle … l’addition.”