Belle

  ‘She looked especially beautiful, she’d gone to a lot of trouble and she was excited, as if she expected to be going somewhere smart with a man she really liked.’

  ‘So you think he was a wealthy man?’

  ‘She wasn’t dressed for a night out with a poor man.’

  ‘Could I look in her room?’ Etienne asked.

  ‘Of course. I was going to suggest you stayed in it.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll be doing much sleeping tonight.’ Etienne smiled with his mouth but his eyes remained cold. ‘I need to get started on investigating. But I must see around her room before I go out. Women’s possessions often tell a great deal about them.’

  Gabrielle went up to the next floor with him, unlocked the door and handed him the key. ‘I’ll give you another one for the front door before you go out,’ she said.

  After Gabrielle had gone downstairs Etienne stood still for several minutes, just looking around the room. He could smell a musky and heady perfume. He noted the row of shoes beneath the wardrobe, the hairbrush, face powder and hairpins on the dressing table, and the three hats on the chest of drawers. It reminded him of coming into the cabin they shared on the way to America for he’d been touched then by her neatness and femininity.

  He had a mental picture of the way she used to curl up on her bunk reading a book, absentmindedly twiddling with a lock of hair, and the way she’d look up at him and smile.

  He shook himself and turned to the job in hand, opening drawers, examining the clothes in the wardrobe. He was impressed by them – although second-hand, they were good quality and stylish. Belle had clearly acquired a great deal of sophistication in the last two years.

  Then he moved across the room to look at the sketchpad by the bed. When he saw it was all hats he felt curiously emotional, for he remembered she’d told him her dream was to have a hat shop. He read some of the notes beneath the sketches and it appeared she had also learned how to go about making her designs; he didn’t think she had that knowledge two years ago.

  He began to search then, for logic told him that if she’d been making money to get back to England, she would never have risked taking it out with her at night.

  First he removed all the drawers and looked for anything stuck to the bottoms. When that revealed nothing he lifted up the mattress and felt beneath it. He slid his hand down the back of the headboard, turned the dressing-table stool upside down. He was running out of ideas, and stopped to look around him again. He put his hand up the chimney and found nothing but soot. Then he noticed the drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe. There was nothing in it. He pulled it right out, looked underneath it, then put his hand back into the space beneath where the drawer sat, and his hand met a tin box.

  He drew it out and opened the lid. Lying inside was a thick bundle of francs. He flicked through it quickly and guessed there was well over a thousand.

  Etienne returned the lid to the box and replaced it where he’d found it, then put back the drawer and stood up. It was a great deal of money and proof that Belle’s clients were very wealthy men, for Gabrielle had said she never went out more than four nights a week. He was impressed that she’d saved so much – most girls in her position would have frittered it away on clothes and fripperies. Paris was a giddy place, a pretty girl could easily think she had the world at her feet and act accordingly. But she’d stayed in a cheap hotel, bought second-hand clothes and sketched hats, and no doubt when she wasn’t with a client she was dreaming of going home to her loved ones and opening a hat shop. He was deeply moved by that, and it made him determined to turn Paris upside down if necessary to find her.

  So who was this Monsieur Le Brun she’d left here to meet?

  Etienne locked the door and went back downstairs. Just as he turned on the last half-landing by Gabrielle’s sitting room there was a knock on the front door. Gabrielle hurried to answer it.

  The tall, slender man on the doorstep took off his hat as he saw Gabrielle. ‘Bonsoir. Je suis Noah Bayliss,’ he said with a stilted English accent.

  Etienne hurried down the remainder of the stairs. Gabrielle had said she’d sent a telegram to this Englishman, but hadn’t explained fully who he was.

  ‘I speak English.’ Gabrielle used the tone most French people adopt with English people who torture their language. She turned to Etienne and quickly said in French that Noah was a friend of Belle’s family, and that he’d come to Paris several times in the past two years to try to find her. She then introduced Noah to Etienne, and told Noah that Belle had given her his name as someone she trusted.

  Etienne moved closer and shook the man’s hand. ‘We are very glad you’ve come, we can do with all the help we can get.’

  Noah looked confused. ‘What do you mean? The telegram said there was news of Belle. Where is she?’

  Gabrielle intervened to say how Belle had been staying here and had disappeared. She explained she hadn’t wanted to put anything alarming in the telegram but hoped for Noah’s help and was grateful he’d come so quickly.

  Noah turned to Etienne, his expression one of puzzlement. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand, Where do you fit into this?’

  ‘It was Etienne who escorted her to America,’ Gabrielle said.

  Noah’s eyes flashed. ‘Then I’m surprised you had the cheek to show your face here. Have you any idea what her family and friends have been through?’

  ‘I understand how it must look to you,’ Etienne said. ‘All I can say in my defence was that I had no choice but to take her. I was ordered to do it, and the people behind it are such that if you refuse, someone close to you will be hurt. But I can tell you that it was with a very heavy heart that I left Belle in New Orleans, for by then I’d grown fond of her, and I assume she felt the same about me as she gave Gabrielle my name as someone she trusted.’

  Noah put his hand to his head. Clearly he couldn’t quite grasp what was going on. ‘I need all this explained more fully,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, you do, and Gabrielle is the one to do that.’ Etienne realized that Noah didn’t know what Belle had been doing here in France, and he didn’t want to be the one to tell him. ‘I’ve got some enquiries to make now, and you must be very tired after the long journey from England. So why don’t you stay here with Gabrielle? She’ll explain everything to you. We can all get together tomorrow morning when you are fresh and know as much as we do.’

  ‘That is the best plan,’ Gabrielle agreed. ‘I have a room free for you, Noah, but first let me get you a drink and something to eat.’

  *

  Etienne caught a fiacre to the Champs-Elysées. He thought that Belle would have assumed that wealthy businessmen would find a hotel in that area because of its central position. He had the note Belle had received in his pocket, and he had a rough plan in his head.

  As he stepped down from the fiacre and paid the driver off, it occurred to him that the task he’d set himself was going to be harder than he had first imagined. He hadn’t been to this area of Paris for some years, and there seemed to be a great many more hotels than he remembered. He also had no idea which ones were the most fashionable now. Back in the days when he’d gone into hotels to rob the rich of their jewellery and money, there had only been a choice of about ten or so. But a great deal of building and refurbishment had been done for the Exposition Universelle in 1900 – as he recalled, the Gare de Lyon was built for it, and also the first Métropolitain train.

  He walked quickly, passing by hotels and glancing in, noting the quality of the clothes and luggage of people getting out of carriages and cabs. He wasn’t going to waste his time with hotels whose guests were mainly tourists; it was the select, discreet and expensive places he was interested in checking.

  The first one he went into, the Elysée, fitted those criteria. Potted bay trees flanked the mahogany double doors with shiny brass fittings which were opened by a footman in green and gold livery.

  Etienne walked across a white marble floor to the reception desk and s
miled at the earnest-looking clerk with horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘Could you tell me the name of your concierge? A colleague of mine said he’d leave a parcel for me with him, but I’m not sure if I have the right hotel,’ he said.

  ‘We have two,’ the clerk replied. ‘Monsieur Flambert and Monsieur Annily. Flambert is on duty now, he may be able to help you even if this isn’t the right hotel.’ He pointed out the concierge’s desk across the other side of the lobby where a couple of guests were talking to the man.

  Neither man had the right initials, but Etienne asked if a Monsieur Le Brun was staying at the hotel. The clerk checked the register and said there was no one of that name staying now.

  Etienne then asked the clerk the names of other good hotels he could try. The clerk reeled off names – some were close by, others further afield, but he helpfully marked them on a street map, and even volunteered to give Etienne their telephone numbers.

  One by one, Etienne called at all the hotels, but in each case there was no one with the right initials, nor was Le Brun staying there. He made a note of each one he’d tried, with the concierge’s name beside it.

  By eleven o’clock he was beginning to think that it might not be a concierge he was looking for but a hotel manager, even though he knew they were usually above making assignations for their guests. There was only the Ritz left to check now, and he didn’t hold out much hope that the most prestigious hotel in Paris would have a man working for them who would risk being involved in anything so shady. He was also wary of even going in, for it had once been his favourite place to rob people of their money and jewellery, and the last time he’d gone there he’d been interrupted by a chambermaid coming into the room to turn down the bed. He’d fled past her and ran down the back stairs, leaving by the back door with someone in hot pursuit. He wasn’t caught, of course – in those days he could run like the wind and scale walls effortlessly. But he’d never dared go back there for fear his luck would run out. However, he reasoned with himself that it was unlikely that anyone who had been working there sixteen years ago would remember a chambermaid’s description of a skinny, shabbily dressed young lad she’d surprised robbing one of their guests.

  He stood for a few minutes in the Place Vendôme looking at the Ritz and tried to imagine the Belle he’d got to know so well plucking up the courage to go into such a grand hotel. But reminding himself that he’d dared to rob people there, and Belle wasn’t lacking in spirit, he went in to ask about his fictitious parcel.

  And he was told the concierge’s name was Monsieur Edouard Pascal.

  E.B. It had to be him.

  ‘But he has gone off duty now,’ the clerk at the reception desk told Etienne. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Etienne replied. ‘I think I have the wrong hotel. I’ll have to contact my friend and ask him which one he said he left my parcel at.’

  Etienne was jubilant as he left the Ritz. Now he had the right name, he had contacts in Paris who would be able to tell him more about this man. For the first time since the fire he felt he had a purpose. He just hoped that Belle was still alive, for when girls of her age and experience went missing they were invariably found dead in a back alley or floating in the Seine. It was the innocent, trusting girls that got whisked off to work in brothels; they could be moulded to the owner’s will. But Belle would not be like that now.

  Le Chat Noir was a dark, smoky bar close to the Moulin Rouge. It was a favourite haunt for men who lived by their wits – confidence tricksters, gamblers, thieves and a variety of entrepreneurial fly-boys. Yet they were in the main the elite of their chosen profession, and Etienne by reputation was one of them.

  The doorman, a thick-set ex-boxer, embraced Etienne with delight. ‘We didn’t think we were ever going to see you again,’ he said. ‘Word got around you’d retired.’

  ‘I have, Sol,’ Etienne replied, and pinched the man’s cheek affectionately. ‘Only in Paris on personal business, but I couldn’t not come and see you all.’

  ‘We heard about the fire,’ Sol said, his face suddenly serious and sad. ‘A terrible thing!’

  Etienne nodded. He didn’t wish to talk about it and hoped not everyone would feel they’d got to bring it up. Perhaps Sol understood, for he remarked on how fit and well Etienne looked and after making a joke about his expensive suit, let him go on into the bar.

  About fifteen men were in there drinking, and perhaps five or six women too. Later, in the early hours of the morning, it would be packed and the air virtually unbreathable. Etienne heard his name called and saw a very short man in a checked jacket waving him over on the far side of the room.

  Etienne smiled. It was Fritz, a very old friend and one of the people he’d hoped would be here tonight. Fritz had always been a mine of information, and Etienne doubted he’d changed in the four years since he’d last seen him.

  He went through the same routine with Fritz as he had with Sol – the embrace, the sincere condolence.

  ‘Don’t let’s speak of that,’ Etienne said. ‘I came here looking for you to pick your brains. All right?’

  Fritz shrugged, which said that whatever Etienne wanted he could have, and then called the waiter for drinks.

  Fritz played the part of a clown to strangers. He was less than five feet tall, and with the loud jackets, spats and bright waistcoats he always wore, and a voice to match, people automatically assumed he was a buffoon. But in fact he was one of the most intelligent men Etienne had ever met. When he was younger he’d single-handedly robbed a diamond merchant here in Paris. It was an audacious and meticulously planned robbery which baffled the gendarmes. Fritz was never suspected and only three people knew he’d done it – his wife, his brother and Etienne.

  At the time the diamond merchant claimed the haul was worth four million francs, but Fritz had always smiled when that figure was mentioned, which Etienne took to mean it was far less than that. But to this day people still talked about the daring robbery, and each year they exaggerated the value.

  Fritz had got away with it because not only had he left no clues behind as to who was responsible, he didn’t brag about it either. Etienne knew it was just that which got most thieves caught, and that they splashed too much money around. Fritz bought a small house, and he and his wife and the children that came along later lived quite simply and happily. He had told Etienne at the time that he’d always planned to do just one big job that would keep him comfortable for ever, and he’d stuck to it.

  ‘I want to know if you know anything about the concierge at the Ritz, name of Edouard Pascal,’ Etienne asked as soon as the waiter had brought them each a large brandy and they’d moved to a table on their own.

  Fritz frowned. ‘Can’t say it’s a place I frequent. What’s he done to you?’

  ‘Nothing. But he’s been arranging clients for a friend of mine who has now gone missing.’

  ‘Fille de joie?’

  Etienne nodded. He was glad Fritz had used that expression, it was kinder.

  ‘But it’s the client you should be looking for surely? Do you know his name?’

  ‘Le Brun, that’s all, there must be hundreds in Paris. But he’d be rich. And she was excited about seeing him again, so she liked him.’

  ‘So we’re looking for a Monsieur Le Brun, rich, charming. Any idea how old?’

  ‘No. But I can’t imagine he’d be much more than forty. She’s only eighteen, girls of that age wouldn’t be excited by someone very old. But could you get any information on this man Pascal? I may be forced to lean on him and I need to know what I’m dealing with.’

  ‘See that man there?’ Fritz pointed out a burly man in his thirties with a very big nose who was sitting a few tables away. ‘He was a doorman at the Ritz a while back. Got the push for insulting someone. He’d know about the concierge.’

  Etienne hesitated. ‘But what’s he like? I don’t want it getting back to Pascal that anyone’s been asking about him. Nor do I want anyone else k
nowing about this business. You know what I mean.’

  Fritz nodded. He realized Etienne was concerned that the organization he used to work for might try to force him back to work for them if they heard he was active again. ‘He owes me a couple of favours. I can make up some reason for asking about Pascal. I won’t tell him you want to know.’

  ‘Fair enough. Ask him when I’ve gone and we could meet up tomorrow. Can you think about the name Le Brun too, and see if you can come up with something?’

  ‘I will. I’ll meet you at Gustave’s at ten in the morning.’

  After leaving Le Chat Noir, Etienne hailed a fiacre to take him to the Marais. It was an area that had fallen on hard times, but he was fond of it for he’d lived there during a period when he had had to leave London in a hurry but couldn’t go home to Marseille. It was well past midnight, but the place was buzzing with life, including dozens of prostitutes strutting up and down looking for business, and their maquereaux leaning on lamp-posts smoking and looking menacing.

  Music wafted out of the many cafés and bars, above many of which were brothels. Etienne had worked in one briefly as a doorman, and he’d been shocked by the perversions the place offered. One room was like a torture chamber with manacles on the walls where the clients could be secured to be whipped. He’d seen men stagger out of there with their flesh so badly lacerated it was a miracle they were still conscious. He still couldn’t understand how anyone would find that pleasurable.

  It was here that he first learned that some men like sex with children, and it was hearing a girl of twelve screaming as she was raped that broke the spell of Paris and sent him back to Marseille. Again and again over the years he’d come up against men who abducted children and young girls to force them into prostitution, a practice he found despicable. The saddest thing was that there was no way out for these girls; once sucked into the trade, there they stayed until they were too old or too diseased for any man to pay them.

  Because of his strong feelings about this trade, he felt deeply ashamed that he’d given in to pressure from Jacques and escorted Belle to New Orleans. While it was true he had no choice, not if he wanted Elena and the boys to remain safe, he had come to justify himself because Belle wasn’t a child and he also believed that Martha’s was a far better place to be than any brothel in Paris.