‘Me, Simone and Antoine Arnault.’
‘Yes. And I’ll make a few phone calls too.’
They neared the end of the bridge and James took his leave. ‘Be careful, Fen.’
‘I’m not the one who’s taming lions, James.’ She winked at him. ‘Four o’clock, don’t be late!’
Forty-Two
Bronzed and curled leaves decorated the pavement as Fen crossed Paris, darting under the shelter of a café awning every now and again to avoid a downpour. She didn’t mind, however, as she was pleased with a certain piece of information she had picked up. A written testimony no less, that was now securely in her trench coat pocket. Alibi or not, she was surer than ever over the guilt of one particular person.
She was thinking it through in her mind as she approached the Marais district and found the entrance to Joseph and Magda’s apartment building. Fen climbed the staircase, picking her way between children playing games. She made her excuses each time and squeezed past, until she was at the Bernheims’ door. Before she knocked, she took a few breaths and looked at her grid again. ‘Tipper… and the blackmail… of course, the warehouse would be vital… those auctions… and who says they’re degenerate…’
More confident now in her own mind, she knocked on the Bernheims’ door.
A few moments of quick explanation later and all three of them were on their way back down the staircase, picking their feet carefully over complicated games constructed of string and sticks, and apologising to languid youths, driven inside due to the rain and wind.
‘Are you sure Monsieur Renaud won’t mind us suddenly appearing without an appointment?’ Magda had worried as they walked briskly from the Marais towards the Palais du Jardin and Galerie Renaud.
‘He’s helping you find your artwork, isn’t he?’ Fen replied, asking the question semi-rhetorically. Henri had told her in no uncertain terms that he could no longer help the Bernheims, but they didn’t know that, not yet.
The rain had really started to fall when the Bernheims and Fen reached the shelter of the colonnade of the Palais du Jardin. Fen felt a pang of guilt bringing the couple to an area of Paris that was once so accessible to them, but now the fancy goods in the shop windows were temptation far beyond what they could afford. Never mind, almost there… Galerie Renaud was in sight.
‘Are you sure it’s open, Fenella?’ Magda asked, seeing the blackout blinds drawn down across the main window and the glass of the door.
‘Let’s see, shall we?’ Fen pushed the door open, and the tinkling of the bell made the two men, deep in conversation either side of the desk, turn their heads to face the incomers.
‘Fenella, and the Bernheims, what a surprise.’ Henri stood to greet them.
The other man turned to face the other way, and Fen noticed his hands rub up and down his thighs; he was agitated, that was for sure.
‘Monsieur Lazard here was just about to leave.’ Henri gestured for Michel Lazard to stand, and without looking Fen or the Bernheims in the eye, he started to move towards them to get to the door.
‘Actually, Henri, I was wondering if we might have a word with both of you. Monsieur Lazard, I don’t think you know me, but I’m a great friend of Rose Coillard… and here to tell everyone who murdered her.’
‘Well, it wasn’t me!’ Lazard looked even more nervous, a sweaty sheen appearing on his forehead.
‘Mademoiselle, please, manners,’ Henri looked stern and Fen wondered if his tolerance of her scheme would last long enough for her to reveal the murderer.
‘I’m so sorry, Henri, please excuse me,’ she hammed it up. ‘Speaking of manners, would there be a chair at least for Madame Bernheim? I can stand, although… Ah, hello, chaps.’ Fen ushered the Bernheims further into the gallery as James, Simone and Antoine Arnault appeared at the door. ‘Bang on time, well done.’
‘Mademoiselle Churche, please explain yourself to me!’ Henri, having fetched a chair for Magda, was now looking more and more put out. ‘What are you all doing here?’
Fen looked him in the eye and said, ‘They’re all here, Henri, to uncover the truth.’
‘Safety in numbers, eh, Fen?’ James whispered as he moved behind her. With all eight of them now squeezed into the relatively small space, it wasn’t claustrophobic as such, but there was a frisson in the air. Henri was sitting now behind his desk and Michel Lazard had moved his chair around so that he was sitting at more of an angle. Magda was seated too, opposite Lazard, and Joseph was standing behind her, his hands gently laid on her shoulders.
Fen stood close to Michel Lazard and could now take in at close quarters his slicked-back hair, very much like that of a matinee idol, and his thin moustache, which was neatly twizzled into pointed ends. He could definitely pass as a young man in a certain light… Next to Fen stood James, who had moved in protectively from the corner of the gallery, with Simone hovering behind him, looking every inch the naïve innocent. Antoine Arnault was the final player in the tableau, his bald head illuminated by the gallery lighting, and he completed the semicircle around the desk by standing between Simone and the Bernheims.
‘Will you explain yourself now, Fenella?’ Henri asked, taking his glasses off and giving them a long and drawn-out wipe with his handkerchief.
‘Yes. Bear with me, as there’s a bit to get through, but I’m pretty sure that one of us here in this room murdered my dear friend Rose and Antoine’s brother, Gervais.’
‘Gervais Arnault was caught up in all sort of underground dealings,’ protested Henri. ‘He was nicknamed “The Wrench”, for heaven’s sake. How can you link the two murders?’
Fen noticed Antoine shifting his weight from foot to foot. Perhaps he didn’t like hearing his brother slandered, or perhaps the allegation stung as it was all
