Page 28

FIFTEEN

V oltaire had summoned a police driver to collect them from the Galerie Werner-Waysmith, but it was still the best part of an hour before they reached Saint-Paul-de-Vence and parked once again outside the main gate. Pünd had been deep in thought throughout the journey, but as he climbed out of the car, he looked anguished. ‘I hope with all my heart that the young lady has returned and all is well,’ he said. ‘I should have prepared for this. I should have known what might happen. This is my fault.’

‘What on earth makes you think that?’ Fraser asked.

‘Did you not see her face when we came here the first time and told her that Lady Chalfont had been murdered?’

‘She was shocked.’

‘To have been shocked would be normal, understandable. But no, James, she was afraid. More than that … she was terrified.’

‘I saw that too,’ Voltaire said. ‘I guessed at once that she knew something she was keeping from us and I should have questioned her there and then. But fool that I was, I decided to interview her later. If anything has happened to her, I’m the one who is to blame.’

‘Perhaps everything will be all right,’ Fraser said. ‘Maybe she’ll be waiting for us in Monsieur Lambert’s office.’

But they knew as soon as they entered the small office that Alice Carling had not come into work. The front room was unoccupied, the desk completely empty. The door to the communicating office was open and Jean Lambert came out as soon as he heard them arrive. As always, his wardrobe and appearance were half a century out of date, as if he were play-acting the role of the provincial avocat , but the concern in his face and in the way he spoke couldn’t have been anything but genuine.

‘Perhaps I have overreacted by calling you,’ he began, before his guests had even sat down. ‘But Mademoiselle Carling has worked with me for four years and she is the soul of punctuality. Never once has she been late and she knew that I was extremely busy today, so she would most certainly have called me if there was something wrong. In the end, I called her parents. They are as worried as I am!’

‘Please begin at the beginning, Ma?tre Lambert,’ Voltaire said. ‘What time does Mademoiselle Carling usually arrive?’

‘She comes to the office every morning at nine o’clock sharp. I usually arrive thirty minutes later, by which time she has made the coffee, opened the post and generally arranged my affairs for the day. Mademoiselle Carling is extremely efficient and completely reliable.

‘This morning, I arrived at half past nine to discover that the office was still locked. I was extremely puzzled and a little alarmed. She has not been herself the last few days.’

‘In what way?’

‘She has seemed nervous, unhappy. Only the other day, I returned to the office unexpectedly. I had forgotten my keys. I found her sitting at her desk and I was quite sure that she had been in tears, although she assured me that it was a room of something …’

Fraser had been translating for Pünd.

‘ Rhume des foins ,’ Voltaire explained. ‘Hay fever.’

‘I blame this announcement of hers, that she was intending to be married. I think it is true to say that she has not been the same since then.’

‘When did she tell you?’ Pünd asked.

‘Three weeks ago.’

‘Was that before or after Lady Chalfont and her family arrived at Cap Ferrat?’

‘It was a few days after. You don’t think …?’

‘Please continue, Ma?tre Lambert. You say she had not arrived at half past nine. Did you not think that she might be ill?’

‘It was indeed my first thought, Monsieur Pünd. That’s why I rang her parents. I spoke to her mother, who told me that Alice had gone out the night before to meet a friend and had not returned home. She said that such behaviour was completely out of character and they had been most worried. They were waiting for her to telephone them and when they heard she had not come into the office either, they insisted that I should alert the police. I decided it would be more sensible to telephone you directly. I had already called the chateau before I called the gallery. If I had not found you there, I would have called the commissariat de police in Nice.’

‘Have you spoken to Mademoiselle Carling’s fiancé?’ Voltaire asked. ‘If she had worries and spent the night away from home, surely it would have been with him.’

Lambert sighed. ‘I have no telephone number for him,’ he admitted. ‘She had not even told me his name until Monsieur Fraser requested it, here in this office.’

‘You did not know the identity of the man she intended to marry until that moment,’ Pünd said. It was not a question. From the way he spoke, he might have known it from the start.

‘That is correct.’

‘She gave us a false name,’ Pünd continued. ‘The man she referred to as Charles Saint-Pierre does not exist.’

‘How can you be so sure of that, Monsieur Pünd?’ Voltaire asked.

‘Have you searched for his number?’

‘No. But I am sure we will find it in the directory.’

‘I am less certain.’ Pünd turned back to the solicitor. ‘You announced that she had become engaged, but she did not introduce you to her fiancé or even tell you who he was. When James asked her for his name, she was clearly embarrassed and did not wish to meet his eye. I knew then that she did not wish to reveal it.’

‘Then who is Charles Saint-Pierre?’ Lambert asked.

‘It was an invention. The poor girl had no idea you were going to mention her engagement. She was caught unawares and had to put something together immediately, by word association. As it happens, a few moments before, she had mentioned that her father played boules in the Place de Gaulle.’

‘Charles de Gaulle,’ Voltaire said.

‘And Saint-Paul, where we are now, became Saint-Pierre.’ Pünd turned to Voltaire. ‘We should see her parents at once. They may be able to tell us more.’

‘We will also begin a search,’ Voltaire said. ‘Let us just hope it is not already too late.’

*

La Gaude was one of those villages that seemed to have sprung up as if by accident, lying beneath a backdrop of mountains, half-asleep in the fierce Mediterranean heat. Like Saint-Paul-de-Vence, it was built into the hillside, with a maze of side streets, most of them too narrow for cars, along with ancient steps and walkways that led the unsuspecting visitor around corners to yet more steps and walkways on the other side. Nothing really led anywhere. There was a chateau that had fallen into disrepair, two churches, an unsanctified chapel that was used as a makeshift cinema, a pink-washed police station, a few shops, some cafés and the inevitable bar tabac close to a patch of gravel where the men played boules. The houses faced each other, providing welcome shadows for the residents as they went in and out, made of stone and wood, brick and plaster, all equally beaten down by the sun. Shrubs and flowers sprouted everywhere, climbing the walls, tumbling from window boxes, bursting out of terracotta pots that might have stood there for a hundred years.

Tom and élise Carling owned a house at the end of a street, three storeys high but only one room deep. They had always lived vertically and had grown used to squeezing past each other on the narrow staircase that connected the floors. The front door opened into the hallway, kitchen, living room and workshop, which all occupied the same area, with a bathroom tacked on at the back. The room was cluttered but clean and tidy, with an enamel stove and provincial furniture that might have been reduced in size to fit the available space.

They were sitting opposite Pünd and Voltaire and perhaps it was the worries of the past twelve hours, but they also seemed diminutive, shrinking into themselves. Tom was thin and wiry, with silver hair and hollow eyes. His wife was rounder, softer, wearing an apron over her dress. After more than thirty years’ marriage, she spoke fluent English, even if her husband’s French had barely progressed beyond ‘ bonjour ’ and ‘ merci ’.

‘Alice hasn’t been herself since the news of Lady Chalfont’s death,’ élise was saying. ‘The evening it happened, she came in and she went straight to her room. I could understand she was upset. She did a lot of work for the family, her and Ma?tre Lambert. But when she finally came down for supper, I could tell she’d been crying.’

‘We asked her what was wrong.’ Tom sounded ashamed of himself, as if all this was somehow his fault. ‘But she wouldn’t talk to me. She hardly touched her food, then she went back to her room.’

‘I did go up, but it was a long time before she would even let me in. Then I sat down with her on the bed and held her in my arms, just like when she was a child,’ her mother continued. ‘She was crying again. She said she’d done something terrible and that she was going to be in trouble. She wouldn’t tell me what it was and the more I asked, the more upset she became. In the end, I decided that it had nothing to do with Lady Chalfont. After all, our Alice meets a lot of important people. Wealthy people. I decided she must have made a mistake at work. I couldn’t think of another explanation.

‘The next day was Saturday. She seemed happier in the morning and we did not speak of what had happened. After breakfast, we went to the market together, and then on Sunday we went to the Church of Saint Isidore, as we do every week. It was just before lunchtime that she received a call.’ élise pointed to a black telephone sitting on a pedestal in the corner. ‘I knew it was bad news. It was as if a cloud had passed across the sun. After lunch, she told me that she was going out to see a friend. She did not say who it was, but I assumed she meant Adeline, who works at the bakery. The two of them have always been close.’

‘It wasn’t Adeline,’ Tom muttered. ‘I spoke to her after Mr Lambert telephoned us. She doesn’t know anything about all this.’

‘Alice went out at three o’clock. That was the last time we saw her. We went to bed early last night and we were busy this morning. Tom helps out at La Petite Ferme, outside the village. I had my housework. We were only aware that something was seriously wrong when Monsieur Lambert called to ask where she was.’ She pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve. Tears had appeared in her eyes. ‘It was so stupid of me!’ she whispered. ‘I should never have let her leave the house.’

‘It wasn’t your fault, my dear.’ Tom Carling rested his hand on her arm.

‘It may be that your daughter is in the hands of a very dangerous man,’ Voltaire said, speaking with his usual directness. ‘But it is not too late. Help is on its way, madame. We have police officers coming from every town and village to help with the search.’ He paused. ‘What can you tell me of a man who may call himself Charles Saint-Pierre?’

‘We’ve never heard that name,’ élise said.

‘According to Ma?tre Lambert, your daughter believed herself to be engaged to him.’

‘Alice would never have found herself a young man without telling us,’ Tom Carling exclaimed. Voltaire’s comment had clearly angered him. ‘He’s talking nonsense.’

‘He’s mistaken.’ élise was more composed. ‘He does not understand that although she is an adult, our Alice is still very much a provincial girl – by which I mean that she is respectful to her parents and she is a good Catholic. She is quiet. She works hard. She is in many ways very ordinary. But she is also a daydreamer. She visits expensive homes in Nice and Saint-Tropez and she sees the great wealth that is arriving in the area. Is it any wonder that she plays make-believe, that she dreams of a life which she may never have? She is young, despite her years, and it is quite possible that she has been led astray. But I will tell you this, monsieur. I am her mother and I am quite certain that there is no Charles Saint-Pierre. Never did she mention this name to me.’

‘So where is she?’ Tom Carling demanded, gazing at Voltaire. ‘What do you think has happened to her?’

‘We do not know,’ Voltaire said. ‘But have faith, monsieur. We will find her.’

*

Once he was outside the house, with Pünd and Fraser, Voltaire slumped against a wall and lit a cigarette. His face was grim. ‘We will look for her,’ he said. ‘But it may already be too late.’

‘If I may make a suggestion,’ Pünd said.

‘Anything …’ Voltaire looked up.

‘She must have telephoned from the house to arrange to meet the man to whom she believed she was engaged. Or it is possible that he called her. They will have spoken many times. Is it not possible that the local operator will have kept a record of the numbers that have been requested?’

‘Of course. It is certainly something I will investigate.’ Voltaire straightened up. ‘My men will be arriving soon and I must also organise the search.’

‘You have much to deal with, Monsieur Voltaire. We will return to the hotel. If there is anything we can do to assist you, that is where you will be able to find us.’

‘Thank you, Monsieur Pünd.’

‘And there is one other thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘Might it be a good idea to return to the Pharmacie Lafayette with a photograph of Mademoiselle Carling?’

Voltaire nodded slowly. ‘I see there is nothing that passes before you that you do not notice. You are thinking of the young woman who came in and asked the time.’ He almost smiled, and might have but for his fears concerning Alice Carling. ‘She came in and asked the hour. “ As-tu l’heure? ” Those were exactly the words she used, according to the pharmacien . “Do you have the time?” But I did wonder why she used such an informal type of address. Any young woman addressing a stranger in a shop would ask: “ Avez-vous l’heure? ”’

‘It would suggest that the meeting was deliberate,’ Pünd said. ‘She knew the person to whom she was speaking.’

‘But what on earth was the point?’ Fraser asked.

‘To establish the time!’ Pünd replied. ‘The pharmacien is old. He has bad vision. But he has been told that it is twelve fifteen.’

‘It could have been earlier,’ Voltaire muttered.

‘Exactly. If it was indeed Elmer Waysmith who was in the chemist’s shop, and it was, let us say, just a few minutes after twelve, he would have given himself more time to enter the hotel, change out of his clothes and still be at the gallery at the agreed hour for lunch.’

In the distance, they heard the two-tone air horns of not one but several police cars approaching the edge of the village. ‘I will keep you informed if there are any developments,’ Voltaire said. He threw down the cigarette and ground it out. Suddenly, he looked exhausted. Fraser watched as, with shoulders hunched, he limped away to arrange the search for Alice Carling.