‘When will you run the article and these messages?’ asked the inspecteur, moving on to the next item for discussion.
‘I’ve already filed them. They will be in tomorrow’s paper.’
Bernard shook his head, but there was the faintest twitch of a smile in the corner of his mouth. He stood. ‘Until tomorrow, Mademoiselle James.’
‘Until tomorrow, Inspecteur Bernard.’
As Charlie left the office, she shivered. Whether it was fear of discovering the kidnapper or anticipation of working with the inspecteur again, she couldn’t say.
The Times, August 1938
Charlie James, Paris correspondent
Glamorous American heiress missing in Paris
Texan oil heiress, Maisy Anna Bell, has been reported missing in Paris. The 22-year-old was being accompanied on her trip by her aunt, Miss Clementine Bell, with whom she was sharing the Diamond Suite at the landmark Hotel Ritz.
Miss Bell was last seen just over a week ago on 9 August in the foyer of the Ritz, preparing to go on a day trip to Saint-Cloud with someone thought to be a Swiss national. Miss Bell is 5ft 8in, of slim build, with blonde bob-length wavy hair, brown eyes and dimples in her cheeks when she smiles. On the day she reportedly went missing, she was wearing a sky-blue beltedskirt, red plaid top, black patent leather shoes, brown sports visor, white gloves and handbag and was carrying a camera.
The man allegedly accompanying Miss Bell to Saint-Cloud is suspected to be between 30 and 40, 6ft 1in, of medium build, with dark hair and a strong Swiss accent. He introduced himself as ‘Louis’.
A bystander at the Ritz has informed police that he saw Miss Bell circulating with guests in the hotel foyer and she ‘was the object of admiration from men and women alike’.
Maisy Bell’s family suspects Miss Bell is being detained against her will. However, the Cité Metro Police insist there is no evidence of foul play and have made no further comment on the case.
Any member of the public who has information about the whereabouts of the missing woman should contact the Cité Metro Police or our news desk.
Maisy’s family have requestedThe Timesrun the following messages:
Dear Maisy, please come home!
Maisy, why did you run away?
Maisy, where are you?
Chapter 6
THE TIMESOFFICE, PARIS
Charlie swung openThe Timesoffice door and stepped into chaos. Her article about Maisy Bell had run on the front page of the first edition. Violet sat at the reception desk, fielding phone calls and frantically writing notes, while behind her, the men on the news desks shouted theories, names and addresses at each other across their terminals, clutching phones to their chests as they raced to find their own piece of the story.
‘It’s been like this since I got in at 8 a.m.,’ yelled Violet as she clasped the phone mouthpiece to the black-and-cream polka dot scarf tucked around her neck and beckoned Charlie to her counter. ‘I’ve got the head waiter at Juno restaurant in Saint-Cloud. He wanted a reward and when I told him there was none, he was rather dramatic.’ Violet rolled her eyes. ‘He swears he saw MaisyBell lunching with a very handsome tennis player on the terrace. I’m getting more details now.’ She winked, pulled a clipboard off her desk and passed it to Charlie.
‘These are the other calls that have come in so far. You’ll need to cross-check them with your friend at the Metro Police.’ She gave Charlie a pointed look as she tapped the board. ‘A taxi driver named Clarice Jean said she picked up Maisy Bell and two burly men near the Sacré-Coeur steps and Maisy begged to be taken to the United States Embassy, but the two men insisted she go to L’Opéra.’
‘Sounds implausible—surely the driver would have reported anything suspicious to the police right away? Raised the alarm to help the poor woman?’ replied Charlie with disgust. ‘Not just drop her off with two men and leave her in danger?’
‘I’m just passing on the messages,’ said Violet softly. ‘Our girl Maisy Bell has also been spotted swimming at one of the main beaches in Nice, shopping for brie and camembert at the Lyon markets, and a fortune teller has called, insisting that Maisy is trapped in a turret at Saint-Malo.’
‘Sounds like someone’s been reading too many fairytales,’ said Charlie as she scanned the notes Violet had thrust at her.
‘James! A word,’ roared a puce-faced George Roberts from the doorway of his office.
Charlie weaved her way through the desk cubicles, ignoring the cries from her colleagues and the frantic clatter of typewriter keys.
George stepped aside for her to enter his office before slamming the door behind her. ‘You’d better have something to back this story up, James. I’ve got old Jimmy Bell and the editors from London breathing down my neck. Whole world’s gone crazy for a missing American tourist.’
‘Well, sir—sorry, George.’ She winced. Her editor hated her calling him sir, as his father and grandfather were both Sir George—an honour that haunted and repulsed him. ‘The Metro Police haven’t taken this seriously until now. I spoke with my friends at the police yesterday.’