Chapter 24
MARTIN ET FILS REAL ESTATE AGENT, SAINT-CLOUD
Charlie sat in the passenger seat of Detective Allard’s police car. They were parked in the main street of Saint-Cloud. Grand baroque and Haussmann buildings sprawled in every direction, black-and-white awnings hanging over cobbled footpaths. Every shopfront was filled with pastries, cheeses or elegant dresses and shoes. Wicker chairs were set around marble-topped tables on footpaths, and pelargoniums and roses filled window boxes and clambered down walls. Saint-Cloud was charming and Charlie could see why it was popular with tourists and day trippers from Paris.
She watched the villagers go about their day with market baskets loaded with fresh vegetables and smallgoods, a child pressing a tiny nose against a lolly-shop window and men in three-piece suits and hats heading off to work. It had been fivedays since Auclair had failed to check in at work, and failed to deposit the rent money he’d collected. Instead, his body had been found in a nearby forest.
‘I appreciate your call,’ Allard said. ‘I can’t say I’m pleased that you and your colleague Violet acted like private investigators and went to Koch’s apartment without police back-up. Or without passing the tip on to the police and leaving them to do their job.’ He sighed. ‘But I can see, from your perspective, that the police have been slow to come up with any answers for the past three deaths.’
Also nothing for Maisy Bell before that, thought Charlie as she fidgeted in her seat. But she knew the world had moved on. She reminded herself that, according to the police, the missing tourist had nothing to do with these cases.
Even so, the current case had a lead in Saint-Cloud. Maisy Bell allegedly had gone on a day trip to Saint-Cloud and never returned. Time permitting, there was nothing against Charlie keeping an ear to the ground while she was here.
Detective Allard had agreed to let her tag along today only when she gave him the details of her meeting with Koch.
‘You drive a hard bargain, Charlie James.’ His voice on the phone had been steady and serious—if a little surprised to hear from her. This morning, when he’d picked her up from the train station, he had been formal and courteous: a handshake and a curt nod, though his eyes still sparkled with a hint of mischief. When Allard had held open the car door for Charlie, she had gotin and tucked her skirt down and with it, the feeling the detective was picking her up for a date. She’d avoided his eyes, but couldn’t avoid Allard’s scent nor the memory of his chest against hers, his lips at her neck. She hoped he couldn’t see her cheeks flush as she climbed into the car.
Now, Allard briefly alluded to their night together: ‘I hope this isn’t awkward for you …’ He didn’t finish his sentence as he looked into her eyes.
‘No, not at all.’
‘About last Friday night …’
Charlie held her breath. Her memories were still warm and it was far too soon for her to hear that it had all been a mistake. ‘You don’t have to apologise.’ She shook her head and looked straight ahead, feigning nonchalance, pushing down her feelings just like she had so many times when she was married.
‘Apologise?’ It was Allard’s turn to look shocked. ‘Why would I apologise for one of the best nights of my life? But I’ve never … crossed the line with a colleague before.’
Charlie exhaled, furious with herself. She was so close to finishing this story she could smell it. And now she’d gone and botched it by having improper relations with her police source. If George ever found out, she would certainly be on the next boat home to Sydney.
The sign above the estate agent’s door read, in elegant gold lettering:
Martin & Fils
Agent Immobilier
A bell tinkled as Charlie and Allard entered and a receptionist with tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses, a cute pink twin-set and her hair in a dark bun looked up.
‘Bonjour. Can I help?’
‘We were hoping to meet with the owner of the agency, Martin,’ said Allard as he flashed his police badge.
‘He’s out for the day.’ She barely acknowledged Charlie, but leaned forward, placing her chin on her fist and nudging her fulsome breasts into view.
Allard’s face turned pink. ‘Oh, in that case, you may be able to help. We are investigating the death of one of the local Saint-Cloud agents.’
‘Oh, Monsieur Auclair, I didn’t know him. He worked for an agency at the other end of the street. I’m happy to walk you there, if you like?’
‘Merci. That won’t be necessary. We are dealing with their agency at this sad time. I wondered if you’d be able to help with a very delicate matter?’
‘Oh, I’m not sure I have anything to say about that. I never met Monsieur Auclair—’
‘No, it’s about a possible tenant. Do you have a Monsieur Gunther or Klaus on your books?’ Charlie asked and the receptionist looked at her with a slightly furrowed brow, disgruntled her exchange with Allard had been interrupted. She leaned back in her chair and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. When she spoke, she ignored Charlie and addressed Allard.
‘Gunther, you say? Oh, yes. I remember him. Tall, like you. Not as handsome, big, bushy moustache. German, I think. Charming as you like. Smartly dressed, with a fob watch in his vest if you don’t mind. Although’—she pushed her glasses up her nose—‘I was surprised when we had to chase Gunther for his rent.’
‘When was this?’ asked Allard.
‘Just this month. He’d been in the place four, no, maybe five months with no issues. Signed a lease for the year. How can I help, officer?’ She looked at Charlie as if for the first time, suddenly inquisitive. ‘If it’s about the money … he’s fixed all that up. There’s no problem now.’