‘Maisy Bell. Texan. Oil heiress. Last seen at the Ritz. Reported to Cité Metro Police, but no follow-up. Maisy was chaperoned in Paris by her aunt. Lady Ashworth decorated one of the family homes—hence the connection. Her uncle has come across to escalate the search.’
‘Lot of good having a chaperone did,’ barked George.
‘Maisy was a young woman. She wasn’t chained to her aunt.’
‘You sure this Maisy Bell isn’t hiding away at another hotel, avoiding bossy relatives? Sounds like she could well afford it.’
‘No idea,’ Charlie said as she staked her claim on this story. ‘I’m going to the Ritz now to meet the aunt. I’ll ask some questions, see if there’s anything to it.’
‘It may be a simple misunderstanding.’
‘Or it could be the legitimate story of an American girl missing in Paris.’
George pursed his lips and scratched his head again. ‘I’m not sure, James, you’re only just back in the office …’
Charlie imagined the men in the closest cubicles rubbing their hands together with glee. She wasn’t going to give her unsupportive colleagues the satisfaction of using her lead.
‘I won’t know if there’re legs to this until I get there—and I’ll be in one of the finest hotels in Paris, people everywhere. Very safe. Lots of eyes …’ Charlie reassured George as she tucked the photos into her notebook and opened her trusty satchel. ‘It’s myjobto find answers.’
‘Only when I tell you to.’ George gave a half-hearted humph. ‘Maybe the police aren’t involved because there’s nothing in it?’
‘Maybe, maybe not,’ said Charlie. ‘But either way, we should be the first paper to jump on this. I’m off to the Ritz.’ She handed her finished write-up on the shoes to George as she stood and shouldered her satchel.
‘Very well. Given Lady Ashworth’s a contact.’ George stepped aside, squat and solid in his three-piece navy suit, and made for his office. He called over his shoulder, ‘No funny business, James. You report straight back.’
Perhaps Violet and George were right, and this was some kind of a misunderstanding. But what if they were wrong? If an American girl was missing in Paris then Charlie James was going to find her.
Chapter 4
HOTEL RITZ, PARIS
Charlie’s taxi crawled down the Place Vendôme and pulled up outside the Hotel Ritz, where the doorman in a three-piece morning suit and top hat sprang forward to open her door with a gloved hand.
Charlie climbed out quickly, indicated she did not have luggage, paid the driver and strode through the spinning gold doors like she was a regular guest. Experience had taught Charlie that concierges and doormen at places like the Ritz could sniff out a fraud at a hundred paces, so she held her head high and was grateful she’d chosen to wear her best-fitted crepe suit and a cashmere scarf today. Her scuffed satchel couldn’t be helped, but if she kept people talking, perhaps they wouldn’t notice.
Charlie strutted to the front desk and spoke to the head concierge with her most authoritative voice. ‘Could you pleasecall up to Clementine Bell’s room and let her know that Charlie James is here and would like to speak. Charlotte James,’ she corrected, using her full name, hoping a female name might be less intimidating.
The concierge’s eyes narrowed. ‘Does Mademoiselle Bell know you are here, Mademoiselle James?’ He was good; he’d already scanned her hand for a ring and found it missing, but perhaps still noticed the tell-tale white band, as she’d only recently taken the ring off when her divorce paperwork was finalised.
She leaned over the desk and spoke with what she hoped was a persuasive whisper as she lowered her eyes. ‘No, she doesn’t. It’s about a personal matter, very delicate.’
‘I see,’ said the concierge, giving her a second, longer glance. ‘May I ask … where you are from?’ He raised an eyebrow. He would most certainly know about a missing guest from his own hotel.
‘I’m …’ Charlie hesitated. She clearly was not police, and if she showed her press pass, the concierge would frog march her from the building. She couldn’t claim to be an acquaintance, as Clementine Bell would not recognise her name.
Charlie took in the acres of marble in the foyer, the gilt mirrors, the avenues of crystal vases overfilled with pink roses, and took a calculated risk. She would name-drop one of the most recognisable people in Paris—someone guaranteed to be well acquainted with the Ritz and a person this concierge would know by reputation, if not sight.
Keeping her voice low, Charlie leaned a little further over the marble counter and said, ‘It’s a very private matter. Lady Ashworth has sent me.’
The concierge straightened. ‘Of course, Mademoiselle James. I’ll call up at once. If you could just take a seat over—’
‘I might go to the far corner if you don’t mind.’ She pointed. ‘More discreet.’
‘Of course.’
Ten minutes later, the concierge ushered two hotel guests over to Charlie. The first was a stout middle-aged woman dressed in an expensive, tailored, pastel-blue suit that made her pale skin seem almost ghost-like. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy and she looked at Charlie James with equal parts distrust and curiosity. Beside her was a similarly rotund man with an identical set of tight grey curls that were clipped close to the scalp. The Bell siblings were the image of each other.
Charlie stood to greet them as the concierge nodded and backed away.