Tug of War

Chapter Eight

Joe’s protests were waved away and the girls were swiftly in attendance. Looking completely at ease in their setting, they swayed into the room, arms gracefully about each other’s waist, and Joe rose to his feet to greet them. Under their exotic disguises both girls were French, he thought, but it was easy enough to tell one from the other.

‘Mademoiselle Lakshmi.’ He gave a slight bow to the slender dark girl wearing a startling confection of purple and shocking pink. The Indian sari was as perfect a sample as he had seen in a maharaja’s palace. Convincing also was the gauzy veil she held flirtatiously over her lower face and the ruby forehead jewel gleaming on her smooth skin. ‘And Mademoiselle Benzai.’ He acknowledged the stiff white silk draperies of the high-waisted dress which could have graced a performance of The Mikado at the Savoy.

‘I must ask you to keep your excitement in check, ladies,’ said his hostess drily. ‘The gentleman is window-shopping only this morning. I think he has seen enough to satisfy his curiosity. You may leave us now.’

Joe was piqued to be so flippantly set aside and he found he was stung by the looks of smiling complicity exchanged by the women. As the girls turned to withdraw, he moved swiftly to open the door for them and caught their attention: ‘Mesdemoiselles! I am utterly charmed.’ He smiled merrily at the two girls. This was one of those occasions when he regretted he had no luxuriant moustache to twirl in a suggestive way. ‘Goddesses of Love, indeed! And may I say how I look forward to the moment when Time favours me and once again the Thistle of Scotland may flourish among the Roses of France?’ he finished gallantly.

She turned an amused face to him. ‘Well, there you are. You may judge for yourself the artistry of Mademoiselle Desforges. A more enterprising girl could have obtained a position with the Ballets Russes. She has the flair of a Bakst combined with the practical skills of a Jeanne Lanvin. All our costumes come from her sketch pad and her needle. All our rooms, the design, the draperies, are of her creation. My dress — ’ she stood and twirled in front of him with the aplomb of a mannequin — ‘would have cost a hundred times more in Paris.’

Enjoying his stricken silence she pressed on, helpful, informative. ‘She took over her father’s tailoring business in the rue Baudricourt when he became ill just before the war. The war disrupted everything of course and she fled to Paris for a year or two but, on her return, she took up the business again and transformed it into the enterprise you may see if you pay her a visit. There are those who say her talents are quite wasted here in the provinces. But I am pleased to know her and glad that I have been able to encourage her. Women are learning to help each other out, Commandant, to snatch at the jobs men have jealously guarded for themselves. Perhaps the only good thing that will have resulted from those frightful years. But tell me, are you going to uphold Mireille’s identification of her lover? She is not a woman to make a mistake. She lived with the man off and on for the four years of the war. She would know him whatever has happened to him in the meantime. And why is your friend and colleague,’ she smiled slyly, ‘Bonnefoye — so aptly named, wouldn’t you say? — not capable of sorting out this dispute himself? He is a most able young man. Why does he have to apply to Scotland Yard for help?’

‘I am here, not in the capacity of Metropolitan London detective, madame, but working under the auspices of Interpol. You are aware of Interpol?’

She nodded, puzzled.

‘The French authorities investigating the problem have cast doubt on the man’s nationality. There is a suspicion that he may, in fact, be English and Interpol called on us to check this. Being an ex-soldier myself and having some experience of this part of the land and the French language, I was deputed to look into the matter.’

‘And you start your enquiry with me? I am flattered by your attention, monsieur, but suspicious as to your motives. Mireille is a valued colleague and I do not feel easy discussing her private life with you. As soon as you leave I shall telephone her and warn her that you are sniffing along on her trail.’

She would have delivered a further broadside but was distracted by the side-door bell which rang out, signalling more serious business. At once her anger evaporated and her professional mask of calm understanding descended.

Joe didn’t wait to be dismissed. ‘The back door?’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’ll show myself out.’ He reached for her hand and held it. ‘I have heard all that you have said, madame, and am truly grateful for the time you have spent talking to me.’ On impulse, he clicked his heels, raised her hand and kissed it and made at once for the door.

Preoccupied with his encounter, he checked his watch anxiously on finding he’d taken a wrong turning and only managed to steer his way back to the car by remembering Dorcas’s request to be parked in front of the Galeries Lafayette. He was a little later than he had hoped to be and was not surprised to see the car door being flung open impatiently for him as he neared it.

It was a moment before he noticed. ‘What’s that strange smell?’

Dorcas waggled her head about and stared at him until he realized.

‘Good Lord! What have you done with your hair?’

The wretched girl was wearing almost the same haircut as the madame he had just left.

‘I thought I’d just slip into the coiffeur over there and have it trimmed. It looks far more modern, don’t you agree? Estelle who did it said it was about time. No French girl has had long hair like mine for years. She trained in Paris, you know. This is the look all the mannequins have. She waved it with setting lotion — that’s what you can smell. I’m very pleased with it.’ She glared at him from under the fringe, disappointed by his silence. ‘And so will be Aunt Lydia. She told me I might have it done if I wished. She even gave me some money for it,’ she lied.

‘Yes, she’s bound to like it, Dorcas. And so do I. I think. In fact, I’m almost sure. I suppose, as our friend the sculptor said, “I shall just have to get used to it.” Bit old-fashioned, I’m afraid. But young Georges at the château will love it. Bound to!

‘Now, if you’re prepared, I think you could well accompany me to the rue Baudricourt to meet Mademoiselle Desforges who turns out to be the entirely respectable owner of a tailoring and design establishment. Another example of post-war female enterprise.’

Dorcas grinned. ‘Men had better watch out. Soon all that’ll be left for you to do is fight each other.’

Gold lettering on the dark blue fascia of a renovated shop announced her business: Desforges, Tailleur. Confection de Dames. Paris Reims. As an illustration, one window showed a single gown discreetly lit. A carved mannequin turned its back with insouciance on the window-shopper, showing off a black cocktail dress in mousseline de soie. The low-cut neckline dipped almost to the waist, silk ribbons floated from the shoulders and a long rope of pearls swung teasingly down the back. Dorcas stared in fascination.

The elderly servant who answered the bell was resentful of their presence on the doorstep. She greeted them, grudgingly acknowledging that Mademoiselle was expecting them. ‘She is very busy and can only afford you a short interview,’ she added.

‘Thank you, Marie. I’ll take our guests through to my office. You must be the Scottish policeman but I had no idea you had an assistant. Ah? Your niece. I’m delighted to meet you, mademoiselle.’ The voice was low and musical, the figure they followed along a corridor was youthful and slim, charming in its navy linen dress and white collar. She paused before a door and turned to them, a finger raised in warning. ‘Here I must ask you to step with care — we’re about to pass through the machine room. The girls are busy with a rush order for a Paris nightclub. They are always rush orders! And it all moves so quickly these days. Every week a new cabaret opens and we’ll have barely filled their first order before they’ve changed their star and the new prima donna demands an entirely different set of costumes.’

To Joe’s amusement the ten girls pedalling on treadle sewing machines were churning out a series of extremely short skirts in yellow and green. Mademoiselle Desforges laughed and picked up one of the outfits.

‘This week it’s bananas — with the odd discreetly placed green leaf, of course. Suddenly everyone wants tropical fruit. Next week. . who knows?’

‘Surely that’s. .?’ Joe began.

‘The divine Miss Baker. Yes. Costumes for her new show. Josephine designed the original — bananas threaded on to a string — but you can imagine the dangers! Energetic dancer that she is, that delicious derrière is in danger of exposure at any moment. And perhaps that’s the point, but we are engaged to kit out a whole chorus line with something a little more substantial and durable.’ She tugged at the waistband to demonstrate the strength. ‘You see? We wouldn’t want an unforeseen event on the front row stealing the limelight from the leading lady!’

A further room was crossed, this one crowded with racks and rails of colourful garments, an Aladdin’s cave for Dorcas who managed, by loitering, to finger some of the satins and furs as they passed by. Catching her interest, Mireille loitered alongside identifying some of the costumes. ‘. . and this one, all diamanté and red feathers, is a commission from Max for the Folies Bergères and these will be worn by Mistinguett. . she opens in Ça c’est Paris at the Moulin Rouge later this year. Ah! Those are for the Dolly Sisters at the Casino de Paris. .’

Joe’s impatient throat-clearing and foot-tapping went unregarded and it seemed an eternity before they broke free of the frou-frous and entered her office.

The room was small and, in contrast with the previous display, spartan in appearance. Two of the walls were lined with shelves of ledgers. A third wall was covered with tacked-up music hall posters of a style and radiance that caught Joe’s eye. Mistinguett, Barbette, Doriane flaunted extravagant confections of feathers and chiffon revealing tempting glimpses of long performers’ limbs and bold eyes. ‘Your designs, mademoiselle?’ he asked.

‘I wish I could say so. No. I pin them there for inspiration. The artist is Charles Gesmar. Have you heard of him? He is depressingly young but a genius, I think.’

The desk taking up most of the floor space was polished and clear but for a note pad and an elaborate black and gold telephone. An open french window gave on to a small courtyard bright with flowers. Joe settled to take his first steady look at Mademoiselle Desforges. Older than her silhouette suggested, she must have been about his own age. Her fine skin was beginning to line but the high cheekbones, the well-shaped mouth and the tilted hazel eyes would ensure that she remained a beautiful woman. Her gaze was intelligent, her gestures responsive. An actress. Yes, that expressive face, those controlled but slightly exaggerated movements were those of an actress. He was on his guard.

Most people he interviewed automatically put on a mask for the occasion even if they had nothing to hide. Nine times out of ten he would patiently prise away the mask only to find the same innocent features hiding underneath. On the tenth occasion something dark and hideous would be exposed.

But he thought he had never spoken to anyone less bent on concealment than this woman. ‘You will, of course, want to know the truth of my relationship with Dominique. Yes, that is his name. He is Dominique de Villancourt. A cavalry officer with the Dragoons. A Parisian. Graduate of the Academy at St Cyr. He was my lover throughout the war years. He told me that he had a wife in Paris and that he did not love her. I can only assume he was telling me the truth of this because he spent every available leave with me. When the German army invaded Champagne in 1914 he managed to reach me and put me on the last evacuation train into Paris. He pushed an address into my hand and told me to go there. It was an apartment overlooking the Bois de Boulogne. I spent the more dangerous periods of the war years there and he came whenever he could. Sometimes we met here when things calmed down. We were lucky — this house escaped the shelling, you see.

‘His wife, he said, knew nothing of the arrangement. The Paris apartment was in my name. He transferred the deeds from his name to mine. I kept all the documents and handed them to Inspector Bonnefoye for verification. He has, I understand, successfully authenticated Dominique’s signature. After the war when he did not return I sold it and invested the money in reinvigorating my father’s business here in Reims. I learned much in Paris. I was not a “kept woman”, monsieur. Oh, no! I earned wages by working in the theatres. Starvation wages! But it was the knowledge and skills I was building to say nothing of the contacts I was making that have stood me in good stead.’ She waved a hand around her office. ‘I am doing rather well, you see.

‘But I owe it all to Dominique. I still work — ludicrous, I know, but it’s how I feel — for him. For a future together. I have never accepted his death. .’ She gave them both a challenging look. ‘It’s pathetic, I understand that, and I see the embarrassed pity in your eyes before you look politely away, but the conviction that he is alive and will one day come back to me has always been so strong that it is quite useless to fight it.’

‘How did you meet this officer?’ Dorcas asked, enchanted by the story. ‘Oh, I say, I’m sorry. . excuse me. . it’s none of my business. .. Sorry, Uncle Joe.’

Mireille turned and smiled at her. A smile to match Thibaud’s, Joe thought.

‘It was very romantic! I was working here — in the old shop, that is — helping my father with his tailoring when a dashing young officer came in. Literally dashing! He was in a hurry — his regiment was being sent north to harry the Germans and the sleeve of his tunic was hanging off. A respectable dragoon does not harry Germans looking like a scarecrow! He needed attention on the spot. The standard of tailoring in those days was appalling but so much to do in so little time. . My father was away so I did the work myself. He stood in his shirtsleeves and watched me while I sewed. We talked. We flirted. We fell in love. He said he would return. I knew he would and he did. And I know he will again.’ She looked at them with speculation and came to a decision. ‘Come with me. I want to show you something.’

She led them out through the french window, across the courtyard and into a recently built extension to her empire.

‘This is where I live. I hope you like the modern style?’

‘I visited the exhibition of Arts Décoratifs in Paris last year,’ said Joe warily, ‘and was most impressed.’

He made further polite comments as she showed off her cool white interiors with their accents of black, grey and cobalt blue; he enjoyed the gleam of chrome, the sculpted lines of the black leather chairs, the feeling of generous space after the bustle and clutter of the commercial premises. ‘Your own design?’ he asked.

‘No. The work of a charming though expensive young architect from Paris. I bring you here to impress you, not with my success and my taste but to give you an idea of my grasp on reality. I want to demonstrate that here lives a woman who is firmly rooted in the modern world. . a woman of common sense and energy who can look to the past and not ignore it and to the future and not fear it but who can — and does — live fully in the present. Oh, dear!’ she smiled in apology. ‘I don’t like to hear myself blowing my own trumpet but time is short. You are a stranger whom, for some reason of instinct, I wish to impress. Forgive me for showing off but you will understand that it is a necessary preparation for the next room I shall show you. This one is back over there in the old building and is indeed a re-creation of the living quarters of the old house. My father’s old parlour. It is very special.’

Joe guessed what she was attempting before he stepped through the parlour door. And stepped into a different age. It took a moment to adjust to the scene. He found himself in a room from before the war. Dim, cosy, overstuffed and decorated in the manner of the belle époque, was his first impression. A thick wreath of wood-smoke spiked with the orange peel and rose petal scent of pot-pourri was almost overpowering. Red plush curtains and potted palms, gold chandelier far too imposing for the room — after the clean geometric lines of Mireille’s house, it was all an assault on the senses and very surprising.

There was a pair of well-worn armchairs, one on either side of the fireplace where a log fire smouldered, and it was towards these chairs that Dorcas strayed. Joe watched her take in the collection of items cluttering the top of a table by the side of one of the chairs: a pipe, still half full of burned tobacco, a tobacco pouch, a dusty brandy glass with the faintest trace of brown liquid in the bottom. From under a footstool a pair of black patent slippers decorated with bumble bees peeked out. A copy of War and Peace had been abandoned over one arm of the chair. The other chair was occupied. A fat white cat gave Dorcas silent warning of his displeasure at being disturbed and she crept away.

Joe breathed in the atmosphere of the room, torn between two reactions. Should he be seduced by the homely allure, the suggestion of every kind of masculine comfort on offer? He didn’t doubt that upstairs there existed a similar shrine ready to provide solace for a weary returning soldier. His mind ranged briefly over feather beds, fresh linen, afternoon sun filtering through shutters, and flushed at the thought. Catching Mireille’s slight smile he wondered if she had caught him out. Of course she had. And the woman’s intelligence and awareness rendered invalid his alternative reaction. This was no Dickensian scene of mad longings never to be fulfilled. Mireille Desforges was no Miss Havisham. She understood herself, laughed at and forgave herself for this indulgence.

‘This is the room he will return to?’ whispered Dorcas, respectful as a pilgrim at a shrine.

‘It’s the room he has never truly left,’ said Mireille quietly, her eyes shining with suppressed tears. ‘He was happy here. If only I can bring him back, he will settle into his chair and pick up his book where he left off. He will feel secure with his cat on his knee. His cat will know him and welcome him.’

She picked up the cat and hugged him but he struggled and made it quite clear that this demonstration was inappropriate. With a shrug, she replaced him on his cushion. ‘Louis was a kitten when Dominique brought him to me as a gift. The trouble with cats — do you have a cat, mademoiselle? — then I’ll tell you — you cannot compel or even expect their affection. And Louis has always understood himself to be Dominique’s cat. Indeed, I do believe he understands Dominique to be his human. You’d swear that he holds me responsible in some way for his disappearance! He’s getting old now but he’ll remember. He’ll leap on to his master’s knee, purr in triumph and favour me with his narrow-eyed proprietorial sneer. And — believe me — I shall be delighted to see it!’

‘You are both waiting,’ said Dorcas.

‘Exactly Louis despises me and I don’t like cats. It’s clear that we ought to have parted company years ago but. . he’s a link with Dominique. Can you understand this foolishness?’

‘And this is your dragoon?’ said Dorcas, pointing to photographs on a sideboard.

Mireille picked one up and held it lovingly in her hands for a moment before passing it to Dorcas.

Joe was intrigued to see the interaction between the two and perfectly content to stand quietly by and watch the scene play out.

Dorcas stared and gulped. ‘Golly! What a hero! And — yes — I can see the likeness. Do you see it, Uncle Joe?’ She passed it to Joe.

‘Yes, I do. It’s very clear,’ said Joe.

The stern face was handsome, the pose a rigid and conventional professional portrait of a cavalry officer in full regalia.

‘Taken sometime after 1916, I think? He’s wearing the new-issue uniform in bleu d’horizon. May I?’

She nodded her consent and he slipped the photograph from its frame. The name of a Paris studio was printed on the back and a date: 1916. He looked again carefully at the soldier. ‘Your officer had been wounded by this stage of the war, mademoiselle?’

‘You have sharp eyes, Commander,’ she said. ‘Yes indeed. And I gave a full report on what I remember of his wounds to the Inspector. Dominique had a sabre cut to his right upper arm. A flesh wound, the bone was not affected. It was for that he was given the wound chevron you have spotted sewn on to his left sleeve. But he has a later wound also. His jaw was broken, he told me by a rifle butt, towards the end of the campaign around Soissons. That was the last time I saw him. He could barely speak but he was determined to go off and rejoin his regiment. He was very distressed. I think he had had a bad time and knew he was about to have a worse. I believe he knew he would not return. He was returning to the Chemin des Dames as we later called that disastrous encounter.’

‘And what was his rank, mademoiselle, the last time you saw him?’

‘He had risen to be a Lieutenant Colonel. He was an officer of considerable standing by the end. The uniform in which he last fought — and perhaps died — would have born that insignia, along with three, possibly four, service chevrons on his right sleeve and two war-wound chevrons on the left. I stitched the second one on myself,’ she said quietly, looking down at her hands.

She hesitated for a moment and then decided to confide in him. ‘I don’t know how many of the facts of the case they have told you, Commander. . I want you to know that I have no motive in claiming Dominique other than concern for his welfare. You have seen his circumstances. It is intolerable that such a man should have to bear that for one more day. I have seen him. I go every week to the hospital. He does not recognize me. Not yet. But I am assured that memory sometimes does return in these cases. I’m quite certain that I could bring him back to sanity again. I can care for him. . I can afford to provide the best care for him. I have told the authorities that I make no claim on any pension or war recompense to which he may be due and I would insist that any such sums be placed in a bank account in his name and left there. It’s important that you know that.’ She turned her face away from him and murmured, ‘I love him. I want him here with me. I know I can bring him back.’

Joe nodded, understanding. ‘Tell me, mademoiselle, how well did Dominique speak English?’

She looked at him blankly for a moment. ‘I really have no idea. I never heard him speak English. There was never a reason why he should. Why do you ask?’

‘Someone propounded a theory that, with his Anglo-Saxon looks, the patient in Reims could be an Englishman scooped up by the Germans, processed, misidentified — or not identified at all — and sent off to a camp in Germany for years. That is why I am here. Passing through Reims on my way south, I was asked to spend a moment or two looking into it. It’s thought important to check all the possibilities no matter how remote.’

‘He’s French. More particularly, he’s a Parisian.’ The tone was firm, the response that of a businessman clinching a deal. She expected no argument.

Joe handed back the photograph and she put it back in its place, immediately taking another one from the line. ‘And this one is just a snapshot taken by a friend but it shows us together.’

A youthful, round-faced Mireille, long glossy hair bouncing on to her shoulders, stood, hat on head, gloves on hands, awkwardly accepting the embrace of recognizably the same man though he was not in uniform but wearing a smart suit and hat and shining boots. Posed as they were in front of the fountain in the centre of the town, they could have been any courting couple walking out on a Sunday afternoon before the war.

Before he could speak she held up a hand and smiled. ‘Yes, I know this is scarcely proof in the eyes of the unimpressionable Inspector Bonnefoye who gave me quite a speech on the frequency and positioning of war wounds on returned soldiers.’ The smile widened to a grin. ‘A speech illustrated by charts of the human body, would you believe? And a hideously dramatic demonstration of sabre-slashing! But I understand that there are other claimants who can produce equally convincing evidence that the unknown soldier belongs to them — and by ties of blood which is something I could never claim. Though there is one indication which I had been hoping it would not be necessary to reveal. . I would not wish to demean this poor person unnecessarily in any way. He suffers indignities enough in that dreadful place.’ She raised her head and finished defiantly, ‘But if I must fight for him, then I will use any weapon that comes to hand. I wonder, Commander, if you could ask your niece, Miss Dorcas, to go in search of the tray of refreshments I had ordered? Marie should be stumbling along the corridor as we speak. Perhaps you could go to her assistance, mademoiselle?’

Dorcas took her dismissal without demur though her eyes narrowed and she favoured Mireille with a long and meaningful stare.

Left alone, Mireille faced him, almost laughing. ‘Goodness! She could give lessons in suspicious staring to my cat! I almost expected to feel her claws! She is very protective of you, I think? I’m sorry. I sent her off awkwardly but I am not aware of how much a woman of the world she is, your charming niece, Commander. I would not like to cause embarrassment in one so young by what I have to say, though. .’ She paused for a moment and added thoughtfully, ‘I suppose I was not a great deal older than she is when I made the discovery for myself.’