‘No. Not a whiff of him anywhere. No memory of him at any soup kitchens.’
Charlie’s lungs emptied. ‘We talked about murderers often visiting the crime scene …’ Her voice faded. ‘Also witnesses.’
‘If this gentleman in the burgundy suit is the same man you met in Tours, the chances of him being responsible for Jouet’s death—’
‘What if the same person killed them both? What if Mael was killed because he saw Jouet killed?’
‘Possible. It’s also possible that this was a wanderer who perhaps had sticky fingers and robbed the wrong person in Neuilly. If thisisyour Mael, then it could be a coincidence. Transient people, they are often more likely to be victims of crime, but rarely are they reported.’ He whistled then dropped his voice to almost a whisper. ‘I understand what it is to see links everywhere. I really do. But the deaths of these two men may not be connected. Perhaps it is best if you come down here and see the evidence?’
‘Thank you. The earliest I can manage is Friday.’ Charlie was grateful that Allard understood her need to resolve at least one story.
‘Bien. Come to Versailles. The medical examiner will have done much of his work and I shall have a story for you. Only for you and your paper.’
‘Merci. I shall meet you in Versailles Friday morning.’
Chapter 17
HOTEL RITZ, PARIS
It had been a month since Maisy Bell had allegedly taken a day trip from Paris to a villa in Saint-Cloud and never returned. A week since the driver Jouet had been discovered with a bullet in the base of his skull. Not even a day since a man in a burgundy velvet suit had been found wrapped in a shroud. Charlie had now had two major stories land on her desk since she’d returned to work and both had gone cold.
The alleged Jouet murder weapon had been identified as a 9mm handgun, but it would take months for police to comb through registered gun sales in France. Besides, it could have been a relic from the war. Who knew how many thousands of households kept an old weapon under their floorboards? Just in case.
The Jouet case was not closed—yet—but the leads were tenuous. Detective Allard had returned to his station in Versailles andpresumably moved on to the Neuilly case and other pressing crimes that needed solving.
This morning, Charlie James had reluctantly made her way to the Hotel Ritz after receiving the distressing news that the Bells were sailing for home from Inspecteur Bernard. The Maisy Bell case had been officially closed, unsolved. The American Embassy, the Sûreté nationale of Paris and the Cité Metro Police had all reached an agreement that the case of the missing American woman in Paris was a mystery. There were no facts to justify further investigation from the authorities.
Charlie, however, was not going to quit. She would persist in her own time to tease out clues to the whereabouts of the missing young woman. It would be her silent gift to the Bells.
At 10 a.m., Charlie sat on a taupe velvet lounge in the foyer of the Hotel Ritz, observing people going about their everyday business. Porters wheeled suitcases for those checking in and those beginning their journey home. Efficient shoes click-clacked across marble and guests milled about in their travel linen, ringing bells at the concierge desk, impatient to be checked into their rooms. These people assumed their small tasks would amount to a satisfying day. Assumed they would wake up and do similar again the next. Just like Jouet, who had woken up and taken his post outside Palais Garnier to drive a limousine every weekday for the past fifteen years. And yet not a single person could tell her how he’d ended up face down in a forest outside Tours. A single, mundane fare ended with tragedy.
She sighed. Where was Maisy Bell? Charlie shared the police’s fears that the young American’s life had ended. But without trails, without any leads, what could be done?
Charlie put her fears aside, clasped her hands together for comfort and tried to think of what to say to the man and woman sitting opposite her. Mason and Clementine Bell were dressed in dark travelling suits with their gloves and hats arranged neatly on the cushions beside them. Mason was rigid, hands in his lap, whereas Clementine slouched into the cushions and intermittently dabbed at her red nose and teary eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. Beside their sofa stood a trolley piled with monogrammed brown trunks. Charlie’s stomach sank when she saw the top one had a clear goldMABstamp. Maisy Anna Bell.
Charlie tried to imagine how hard it must have been for Clementine to retrieve all of Maisy’s smalls, her ballgowns, sundresses, pieces of jewellery and makeup scattered across her suite and gather it into her monogrammed travelling trunks. It was an act of optimism and hope that these sweet belongings would one day be reunited with their owner in America.
As she looked at the deflated Bells, Charlie tried to offer some consolation.
‘I’m sorry that you’re leaving Paris without answers. The sightings of Maisy continue to come into our office—often with demands for money, I’m afraid.’
‘Scoundrels, the lot of them. Preying on a family’s loss like that. Seeking money.’ Mason spat his words out as he shook his head.
‘Agreed,’ said Charlie as she studied him closely, then looked at his sister. ‘I’ll be chasing any new leads with the Metro Police.’Though not Officer Rose, she thought. Maybe Detective Allard would help.
‘Fat lot of good that will do you,’ sobbed Clementine as she pressed the corner of her handkerchief into her eye.
Brother and sister seemed in genuine anguish and Charlie’s gut told her that their feelings were sincere. They were devastated by the loss of Maisy.
Although, the investigative reporter in her still entertained the possibility that the Texans had arranged the kidnapping of their niece and it was a bungled job. Or, if she followed the lead to more sinister avenues, brother and sister orchestrated Maisy’s kidnapping, and possibly even her death, so they would have full control of the company when their brother died. A death that sounded imminent.
To what end? As heirs to the biggest oil company in America, the siblings would have substantial wealth. And, rather sadly, Charlie thought, neither of them had loved ones of their own to share their wealth with or pass it on to.
Mason may have been gruff and Clementine insipid at times, but neither struck her as being that short-sighted.
Eventually, it was Clementine who gathered herself up on the sofa and spoke. ‘Maisy’s mother, Dolly, sent me this letter to pass on to the French po-lice.’ She slipped an envelope from her purse. ‘Now, I know you are going to ask me why Dolly did not pass thisto the authorities herself. Well, she did—she gave the US Embassy a copy. I dare say the French po-lice have a copy, too, but they have said there is nothing more they can do. This feels like new evidence to me. I wanted to stay—’
‘This letter proves nothing,’ Mason cut in. ‘Only that Maisy’s story was true.’ He gave Charlie a pointed look as Clementine handed over the letter.