Paris - And My Love Page 12

  But the next minute she remorsefully admitted to herself that she knew quite well why she had done it. She was ten times better equipped than the other girl to deal with a crisis. And anyway, she reminded herself bracingly, there was nothing particularly terrifying in telephoning the charming Madame Florian.

  She wished she could have done so right away, before going to work. But it was obviously too early to disturb someone who had also been up until the small hours of the morning. She would have to find a suitable moment during the morning, and telephone from the booth just outside the boutique. All she could do at the moment was look up the Florians’ private number and make a note of it.

  Having done at least this much toward settling the whole affair, Marianne set out for work in a rather better mood.

  At the boutique she found everyone somewhat inclined to relax and gossip, at least during the early part of the day before business became brisk, Even Madame Rachel, looking impeccably well groomed and soignée in spite of her short night, was in an indulgent mood. Though to Marianne she was a trifle reserved, presumably because she could not quite bring herself to overlook the unfortunate incident of the lost brooch.

  If she knew I had it in my bag at this moment, she’d have a fit, thought Marianne. And for the first time it was brought home to her that she had put herself in a decidedly false position, and she longed for the time when she could rid herself of the incriminating piece of evidence.

  Of Marcelle, surprisingly, there was no sign. And presently Madame Rachel, after being summoned to the telephone, came back to say that she would not be coming in to the boutique that day.

  “Her mother is ill, it seems, and she cannot leave her.” Madame Rachel shrugged. “She has not an easy time, that little one. Today one can be a trifle indulgent, since she worked so late last night. But it would not be good for her work if maman were to keep her at home too often.”

  Marianne felt unwarrantably depressed at Marcelle’s nonappearance. Not that she was likely to be a powerful support in any moment of crisis. But at least it would have been pleasant and reassuring to be able to whisper to someone the gist of whatever conversation she had with Madame Florian. To have no one near who, even in the remotest degree, shared her anxiety made her feel unpleasantly isolated.

  How strange that it isn’t enough to know one is innocent, she reflected uncomfortably. And when Florian presently passed through the boutique on his way up to the salon, she avoided his glance and actually felt her heart beat apprehensively as though she had indeed committed some sort of crime.

  But at least his presence meant that she could now safely telephone his home. And as soon as there was a lull she asked Madame Rachel if she might go and make an urgent personal telephone call.

  Madame Rachel was lenient about these things, and even though Marianne was not in her good graces at this moment, she gave permission, only adding on principle, “Do not stay to gossip.”

  “No, madame,” Marianne promised. And seizing her handbag, from which she now hardly dared to be parted for one instant, she made her way to the telephone booth and eagerly dialed the Florians’ private number.

  Almost immediately a voice that was not Gabrielle Florian’s replied.

  “May I speak to Madame Florian, please?” Marianne’s voice shook a little, in spite of herself.

  “Madame has already left for the airport,” was the unexpected reply.

  “The—the airport? You mean—Madame Florian has gone away?”

  “Madame is flying to London today. Who is speaking, please?”

  “It doesn’t matter. When will she be back?”

  “In a few days. Perhaps Monday—or Tuesday. Who shall I say called, please?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Marianne again. And slowly she replaced the receiver.

  A few days! One could not wait for a few days. It was impossible to take unofficial custody of stolen goods—for that was what it amounted to—for a few days. She would have to do something else.

  And when she returned to the boutique and saw that Lisette had drifted down for something, Marianne felt more than ever that she was in the falsest of false positions. Lisette was talking to Madame Rachel with that spuriously meek air that she sometimes assumed. But while she talked, her green eyes glanced around reflectively, and when they lighted on Marianne, just returned from telephoning, they looked abnormally interested.

  She’s wondering what I’m going to do, thought Marianne. She’s probably wondering why I haven’t done anything yet. I should have spoken to Monsieur Florian as soon as he arrived. Or to Madame Rachel. I haven't done myself any good by waiting. I mean—I haven’t done Marcelle any good. At least—by now I seem to be much more involved than Marcelle!

  While she was digesting this unpalatable thought, Lisette went away upstairs again.

  I shall ask to see Monsieur Florian now, Marianne decided resolutely.

  But before she could even speak to Madame Rachel about approaching the great man in person, the door of the boutique opened and in came Roger Senloe.

  “Roger!” She was so relieved to see him that she said his name aloud, oblivious of the effect it might have on Madame Rachel, with her strict notions of proper respect to both customers and her employer’s visitors.

  “Hello, there.” Roger smiled down at her, so reassuringly that Marianne could not imagine why she had not thought of telephoning him and telling him of her dilemma. “Recovered from the drama of last night? I hear the whole thing was an enormous financial success.”

  “Monsieur Florian will have the latest reports and will doubtless be happy to see you, Monsieur Senloe,” Madame Rachel interposed, and she gave Marianne a quelling glance that entirely precluded any exchange of confidences.

  “I’ll go right up, if I may.” Roger turned the full battery of his charm on the director of the boutique for a moment, in order to subdue her.

  “Please do, please do.” Madame Rachel was all smiles at once. “Marianne—attend to madame, who wishes to see some gloves, I believe.”

  “Yes, madame,” Marianne said. But somehow—perhaps by some clever contrivance of Roger’s—she was able to snatch a further word or two with him at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Roger, I must see you and talk to you,” she whispered urgently. “Please, please find an opportunity.”

  “When I come down again,” he promised, also in a low voice. “Can I take you out to lunch?”

  “Just coffee and a sandwich—there won’t be time for more. But thank you.”

  And then she was at the counter, inquiring the wishes of a stout dowager, with a courteous air that really covered the most enormous relief.

  It would be all right now. Roger would believe everything she said and would know how to handle the situation. Why on earth hadn’t she thought of him before? But anyway, it didn’t matter. She had thought of him now. And never in her life had she been more glad to remember the existence of anyone. At that moment, for her, Roger Senloe wore an outsize halo.

  Her customer took a long while to decide on her purchase, but Marianne displayed admirable patience and was genuinely pleased to see her go away satisfied. Then she turned to find Madame Rachel at her elbow. And what Madame Rachel said gravely was, “You are wanted in Monsieur Florian’s office, Marianne.”

  “In Monsieur Florian’s office?” It was an unusual summons for one of the junior vendeuses, and Madame Rachel’s expression said as much. Insensibly, Marianne’s heart skipped a beat. Then she told herself, somewhat illogically, that Roger must have guessed what had happened, and that this was his way of giving her a chance to tell her story to them both.

  She knew the next minute that this was impossible, of course. But, in any case, one did not keep Monsieur Florian waiting. So she smoothed her hair with a slightly unsteady hand and prepared to obey his summons.

  At the last moment she caught up her handbag—but whether because she still dared not leave it unattended or because she believed that she could a
t last hand over the brooch, she was not quite sure.

  There were two flights of stairs to climb to Monsieur Florian’s office, and Marianne was slightly breathless when she finally knocked on the door and, in answer to his abrupt, “Come in,” entered.

  The famous designer was sitting behind is desk, a not very prepossessing expression on his worn, clever face, and Roger Senloe was sitting at the side of the desk, looking unusually grave.

  “Sit down, mademoiselle.” Florian indicated the seat immediately opposite himself, and it seemed to Marianne’s excited fancy that his cold glance rested for a moment on the bag she was clutching.

  She sat down and waited. And after a moment Florian leaned forward, his hands clasped lightly on the desk in front of him, and addressed her with a sort of courteous deliberation that was curiously without reassurance.

  “Mademoiselle,” he said, “I am going to make a very curious request of you. You may consider it an unpardonable request, and you are quite at liberty to refuse it. But I hope you will not do so.” He paused for a moment, though his glance did not move from her face. “Would you be good enough to open your handbag and show me what you have inside it?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Don’t panic, Marianne told herself in what she knew was a moment of real peril, though it was hard to think of anything but Florian’s cold gray eyes looking at her so uncompromisingly. Then she heard herself say quietly, “It is simpler if I tell you, monsieur. I have Madame Florian’s brooch in my bag.” She heard Roger catch his breath. “I was waiting for a suitable moment to bring it to you.”

  “You have had several suitable moments during the morning, mademoiselle,” Florian said dryly. “And still more suitable moments last night. Explain yourself.”

  “I couldn’t bring it to you last night, monsieur. We—I didn’t find it until we—I got home.”

  “But you have had it with you all this morning? And you didn’t bring it to me until you were summoned and challenged. Why?”

  “I tried to telephone Madame Florian, monsieur. I thought—”

  “Why Madame Florian?” His eyebrows went up.

  “Because she is much less intimidating than you, monsieur,” Marianne said with desperate truth. “She would not speak to me as you’re speaking to me now, making me feel guilty when I am innocent. She would listen while I told my story—”

  “I, too, am listening, and I invite you to tell your story,” Florian observed dryly. But insensibly his voice was less cold, and he leaned back in his chair with a more relaxed air.

  “Perhaps if I did the questioning—” Roger began.

  “Thank you, mon ami,” said Florian without even looking at him, “but I prefer to handle my own staff in my own way. Proceed, mademoiselle.”

  So mademoiselle, somewhat stumblingly, proceeded. As simply and briefly as possible, she told how she and Marcelle had discovered the missing brooch in Marcelle’s handbag, and almost immediately Florian interrupted her.

  “Then you mean—it was not in your handbag at all?” He looked surprised and, in some grim way, intrigued.

  “No, monsieur. It was not in my handbag. But I think it was intended to be there.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because whoever planted it there wanted to get someone into serious trouble. Marcelle, as she explained to me herself, has no enemies. Nor is there any reason someone else might envy or hate her.”

  “A cheerless lot,” commented Florian with a slight grimace. “But there is another explanation, mademoiselle. Have you not thought of it? If, as you say, the brooch was in Marcelle’s bag, might the simple explanation not be that she stole it herself?”

  “Oh, she couldn’t,” Marianne stated with simple conviction. “She’s honest, she’s timid—and she invited me, for no reason but the obvious one, to look in her handbag for her latchkey. But for that suggestion of hers, I should never have seen the brooch.”

  “Hmm, yes—that does seem to dispose of Marcelle,” Florian agreed thoughtfully. “That is, if your story is true, mademoiselle, and not just concocted on the spur of the moment.”

  “Really, Florian...” Roger shifted angrily in his seat, but a gesture from Florian silenced him again.

  “Monsieur Florian,” said Marianne, looking directly at him, “it is quite easy for you to prove my story. Marcelle has not come into work today because her mother is ill. I have had no way of communicating with her since last night. If you would like to telephone her now, you can confirm everything I have said.”

  “It is a good idea,” Florian agreed calmly. And reaching for the telephone, he asked the operator to find Mademoiselle Marcelle’s telephone number and put him through.

  While they waited, Marianne stared at the floor. She knew instinctively that if she looked up she would draw a sympathetic glance from Roger, and she could have done with it. But she also knew that Florian wanted no personal element to be introduced into this conversation until he himself was satisfied of her innocence. And Florian’s wishes were the ones that counted at the moment.

  “Ah, Marcelle,” she heard him say after a pause, and his tone was pleasant and unalarming. “This is Monsieur Florian—”

  But evidently the mere mention of his name was enough to uncork Marcelle’s rush of explanations and apologies. For three solid minutes he sat there, unable to get in more than an occasional, “So?”

  Then he said firmly, “Thank you, Mademoiselle Marcelle. You have been most helpful and explicit. My compliments to your mother, and I hope she will soon be well. Please don’t worry further. The brooch is in my office now and will be returned to my wife without delay. Goodbye.”

  As he replaced the receiver there was a glint of unmistakable amusement in his eyes. Then he smiled faintly at Marianne.

  “Your story has been amply confirmed, mademoiselle. But I still do not see why you took on the explanations for Marcelle.”

  “She was afraid to make them herself, monsieur.”

  “She seemed to be under no difficulty of the sort just now,” he remarked dryly.

  “Oh, but that’s different! You’re not so—I mean—on the telephone it’s much easier.”

  “Miss Marianne means that the very sight of you strikes terror into your employees,” put in Roger, with a certain amount of enjoyment, Marianne thought.

  “Am I so terrifying?” Florian looked at Marianne and smiled, that singularly attractive smile that he could use if he liked.

  “At times, monsieur, yes,” she said frankly, though with an apologetic little laugh. “I would not like to face you if I had really done something wrong. And I didn’t relish the idea even when I appeared to have done something wrong. That was why it seemed so much easier to explain to Madame Florian. I did telephone her, as your maid will confirm—though I didn’t leave my name,” she added as an afterthought. “But I learned that madame had just left for the airport.”

  “Yes, that’s true. She will be away for a few days. But if you will give me the brooch, mademoiselle, I shall be happy to return it to her when she comes home.”

  “Oh, yes of course!” Marianne opened her bag, took out the brooch and thankfully handed it to her employer. “I am glad to see that satisfactorily ended,” she exclaimed.

  “But it’s not ended,” cut in Roger on a grim note that Marianne had not heard in his voice before. “Somebody tried hard to make you out to be a thief, and we have to get to the bottom of that. Have you any idea who might have wanted to do this monstrous thing to you, Marianne?”

  There was a moment’s pause. Then Marianne said quietly, “Before I answer that or accuse anyone unjustly, will you tell me, Monsieur Florian, what—or who—gave you the idea that I had the brooch in my handbag?”

  Immediately a disagreeable expression came over Florian’s face, and she saw that, for his own reasons, he would very much have preferred not to stir up further trouble.

  “Now that the brooch has been returned and you have been exonerated, is that not suffic
ient, mademoiselle?”

  “No, it is not sufficient!” That was Roger Senloe again—more indignant on Marianne’s behalf, it seemed, than she was herself. “Stop being so confounded disingenuous, Florian. You know perfectly well that that sly little redhead couldn’t have come making insinuations if she hadn’t known more about this business than she should.”

  “My dear Roger, I don’t know how you got into the diplomatic service—and, still less, how you stay there—if that’s your way of handling a delicate matter,” retorted Florian with some annoyance.

  “Never mind about that.” Roger was suddenly cheerful again. “Miss Lisette—or whatever her name is—isn’t the kind to be dealt with in tactful memoranda. Blunt and brutal, that’s the handling for her.”

  Florian drummed angrily on the desk with his long fingers and frowned, so that in an odd way Marianne was slightly sorry for him.

  “Monsieur Florian,” she said, “I do understand that you don’t want trouble in the firm, but I would like to know—was it Lisette who told you I probably had the brooch in my handbag?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then I’m afraid she also thought she had put it there. First of all, she counted on your calling in the police last night, in which case we should probably have had to turn out our bags, and I—or, as it turned out, Marcelle—would have been in a very awkward position. But Madame Florian’s kind indulgence saved us from that.”

  “That must have been a disappointment for the little so-and-so,” observed Roger savagely.

  “After that, she probably hoped that I would be so nonplussed and horrified when I discovered the thing in my bag that I wouldn’t know at first what to do. Which was true, of course.”

  “On the contrary, she probably judged you by herself,” said Roger uncharitably, “and decided that you would hang onto it, since you had unwittingly got it safely away.”

  “No, no—” Marianne shook her head and smiled “—she was pretty sure I had it in my bag still, which wouldn’t have been the case if I had just decided to keep it. I remember now—she obviously noticed that I was reluctant to be parted from my bag, even when I just slipped out to the telephone booth. She made a shrewd guess at the reason, and went straight upstairs and told you I had the brooch in my bag, I suppose?”