Hand In Glove Part 54

"I don't quite-"

"They were French chocolates, Miss Ladram. From a shop in Paris. And the name of the shop began with a V. I'm sure it did."

Charlotte felt the sudden acceleration of her thoughts almost as a physical sensation. She sat forward and clasped Mrs Mentiply by the wrist. "What was the name?"

"Vac . . . Val . . . Va.s.s . . . Something like that."

"You must remember. For G.o.d's sake!"

"I don't think I can."

Charlotte clamped her eyes shut for an instant to stave off frustration. "Please try," she said as she re-opened them. "It's absolutely-"

Then she stopped. Mrs Mentiply was smiling.

"There's no need for me to remember. They came in smart green tins with a label inside the lid showing the name and address of the shop."

"Quite possibly. But-"

"They were too good to throw away when the chocolates had been eaten!" Mrs Mentiply's smile broadened.

324.

R O B E R T G O D D A R D.

"You mean . . ."

"I've got several at home. I use them to store all sorts of bibs and bobs in. And I'm sure the labels are still on them."

Mr Mentiply had already departed for his lunchtime imbibition at the Greyhound Inn when they reached the bungalow. Without pausing even to take her coat off, Mrs Mentiply bustled into the sitting room, yanked down the flap of the bureau and pulled out a round tin about six inches in diameter. It was dark green, edged in gold. In her eagerness to remove the lid, she spilt most of the contents-pens, pencils, rubbers and paper-clips-on to the floor. But she paid them no heed as she held out the lid for Charlotte to see. On the inside, as promised, was a label, printed black on gold, scratched and ink-stained but clearly legible.

CONFISERIE Va.s.sOIR.

17 RUE DE TIVOLI.

75008 PARIS.

Visiting Colin had left Derek more uncertain than ever how to bridge the gap ten days of contrasting fortune had opened between him and Charlotte Ladram. He wanted to give her help and support, but in practical terms there was none he could offer. Nor could he avoid reminding Charlotte of the hopeful turn Colin's case had taken-a turn to which she had made a significant contribution-while her niece's plight seemed only to worsen by the day.

Yet he was also reluctant to let events stifle their friendship before it had properly begun. It was the sort of mistake he had made too often in the past and accounted for him standing on the brink of a lonely middle age. Driving back from Newhaven to Tunbridge Wells that afternoon, he had only to think of the empty house and the solitary evening awaiting him at Farriers to rebel against caution and risk a diversion to Ockham House.

But his small rebellion did not bring him even a modest reward.

Charlotte was out. Where she might be he could not imagine and the gap between them seemed perceptibly to widen as he sat waiting in his car for a doleful hour of encroaching twilight. When he eventually gave up and drove away, he was weighed down by a leaden conviction that he would never return.

CHAPTER.

FOUR.

Charlotte's response to her discovery had been so instinctive, and the action it had prompted her to take so urgent, that it was not until late afternoon, aboard a train drawing ever closer to Paris, that she began to consider the difficulties and possible consequences of the task she had set herself. She had, after all, promised Chief Inspector Golding she would pa.s.s any information she obtained on to him immediately. In the event, however, she had not even thought of doing so. Instead, she had sworn Mrs Mentiply to secrecy, driven back to Tunbridge Wells to collect her pa.s.sport, then raced to Dover just in time to catch an early afternoon hovercraft to Boulogne.

She had justified her behaviour to herself on the basis that the police would have been much slower and more painstaking. Their heavy-handed approach might also have deterred Madame Va.s.soir-if there was such a person-from co-operating, whereas Charlotte was uniquely well placed as Beatrix's niece and Samantha's aunt to appeal to her on behalf of the whole family. But there was, as she had realized, another less worthy motive driving her on. She wanted to find the solution to the mystery on her own and to flourish it beneath the noses of those who had doubted her ability-or her right-to do so. She wanted to finish what Maurice had begun.

Wanting and achieving, however, were not the same. She had looked no further till now than finding Confiserie Va.s.soir, trusting to luck and French shopping hours that it would still be open when she arrived. The train reached Paris at half past six. A drizzly dusk was settling on the city and the imminence of nightfall had an instantly erosive effect on her confidence. But she succeeded in holding it at bay. From the Gare du Nord she took a taxi, stating her destination as "Dix-sept, Rue de Tivoli. " Fortunately, it was not far. She was set down in a quiet side-street near the Madeleine. Most of the shops seemed already to be closed and her heart sank as she identified the unlit frontage of number seventeen. All she could do was stare glumly at the sign hanging inside the door-CONFISERIE Va.s.sOIR: 326 R O B E R T G O D D A R D.

Ouvert 9.3018.30 Mardi Samedi-then glance at her watch, which confirmed she was fifteen minutes too late.

Suddenly, there was the hint of a reprieve. It took the form of a blaze of light at the back of the shop. A stocky male figure entered from a room at the rear and began looking for something beneath the counter. Charlotte rapped on the window with her knuckles. He looked up, made a shooing gesture with his hand, then returned to his search. She rapped again and shouted "Monsieur Va.s.soir!" praying he was indeed Monsieur Va.s.soir and could hear her. But, having found what he evidently wanted, he only frowned and waved her away once more. "Monsieur Va.s.soir!" she bellowed, striking the gla.s.s so hard she thought it might break. "S'il vous plat! Tres important!"

He stared, then, with an enormous shrug of reluctance, he walked to the door, unbolted it and edged it open.

"Nous sommes fermes, madame! " He was a short balding man of late middle age, with a bristling black moustache and a gruff voice.

He was clearly annoyed.

"Monsieur Va.s.soir?"

"Oui, mais-"

"I hope you speak English. I'm looking for Madame Va.s.soir. Your wife, perhaps? It's vital I find her. A matter of life and death." His frown deepened. "My name's Charlotte Ladram. I-"

"My wife does not know you," he retorted.

"No. But I think she knows-knew-my aunt."

"Please go away." He made to close the door. Desperately, Charlotte thrust her shoulder into the gap.

"Beatrix Abberley!" she shouted. "My aunt was Beatrix Abberley."

He pulled back and squinted at her, pushing out his lower lip in a gesture combining pugnacity and deliberation.

"She sent a letter to a Frenchwoman in June. Arranged to have it sent, I should say, immediately after her death. The Frenchwoman's name began with V. If your wife was the recipient, then I must speak to her. There was an appeal in the papers here, I know, for Madame V to come forward. But they won't have explained why it's so urgent.

My niece has been kidnapped and the letter may hold the key to her freedom. To her very life!"

"What makes you think my wife is this . . . Madame V?"

"She sent Beatrix chocolates every Christmas and Easter. She was a friend. Beatrix said so. The label on one of the tins is what brought me here."

H A N D I N G L O V E.

327.

He hesitated a moment longer, then grunted and opened the door sufficiently for Charlotte to enter. As he closed it behind her, the lingering aroma of rich chocolate emerged from the gloom around them. The counters and display cabinets were empty, save for a few of the distinctive green and gold Confiserie Va.s.soir tins.

"What has the letter-if there is a letter-to do with your niece's . . . enlevement?"

"It's the letter her kidnappers want."

"They have said so?"

"Not exactly. But when I spoke to them-"

"You have spoken to them?"

"Yes."

"What do you know about them?"

"Nothing-except that they're Spanish."

"Espagnol?"

"Yes. Definitely."

"Espagnol," he repeated in a disbelieving murmur. "Wait here, madame. I will telephone my wife." He hurried into the back room.

Charlotte heard him dial, then, a moment later, announce himself.

"Ma cherie? C'est moi. Oui. Au magasin. ecoute bien." His speech accelerated beyond Charlotte's comprehension, though she caught her own name-and Beatrix's-on several occasions. Va.s.soir said less-and listened more-as the call proceeded. It drew to a close with expressions such as "Oui, oui" and "Immediatement." Then he put the telephone down and rejoined her in the shop, frowning solemnly.

"My wife wants me to take you to her, madame. She is at our home in Suresnes. It is not far. Will you let me drive you there?"

"She is the Madame V Beatrix wrote to?"

"Oui."

"Then, yes, please take me to her. Straightaway."

"My car is parked at the back. Come this way."

"One thing, monsieur. When I mentioned Spain, it seemed to make a big difference. Why?"

"Because my wife is Spanish."

"I see." Guesswork prompted her to add: "What was her maiden name?"

"Pardon?"

"Her surname-before you married."

"Ah, je comprends." For the first time, he smiled. "Ortiz. Isabel Ortiz."

328.

R O B E R T G O D D A R D.

"And Vicente Ortiz was . . ."

"Her father."

CHAPTER.

FIVE.

The Va.s.soirs lived on two floors of a gaunt town house west of the Seine. Charlotte was aware of high ceilings and dark pa.s.sages, large rooms decorated with a restraint bordering on austerity, but only dimly so. Somehow the surroundings seemed blurred by her thirst for knowledge. The answer was close now and the minutes remaining before it was revealed to her were harder to bear than the days and weeks that had gone before.

Isabel Va.s.soir was a slim, elegantly dressed woman in her late fifties with grey hair tied in a bun, immaculately poised between deli-cacy and frailty. She greeted Charlotte in a drawing room strewn with plants and pictures where an impa.s.sive bloodhound dozed before a blazing fire. Marriage to a Frenchman seemed to have erased her Spanish origins completely. There was no breath of the south in her mannered metallic voice. She spoke much better English than her husband and looked at Charlotte with a farther seeing eye. Henri Va.s.soir left them alone together and Charlotte felt increasingly uncomfortable as she explained how and why she had found her way to Paris. When she concluded by asking if Madame Va.s.soir still had the letter from Beatrix and if its contents could have provoked Samantha's abduction, her hostess poured them both a gla.s.s of sherry before replying.

"Yes, Charlotte, the letter-and what came with it-answers all your questions. As what you have told me answers mine. I read the appeal in the newspapers for Madame V to come forward, but they said nothing about abduction or ransom. Even so, you will wonder, why did I not respond? Well, when you have read what Beatrix sent to me, you will understand. I disclose it now only to help you save your niece.

Otherwise, I would refuse. Otherwise, it would be safer to keep it hidden."

H A N D I N G L O V E.

329.

"Why?"

"First, I must tell you how I came to know Beatrix. She was a good and generous person. She was kind to me and to Henri and to my mother. Too kind, it seems, even to tell us she did not like chocolate."

"I don't recall her ever referring to you."

"You would not. She kept her friendship with us secret. Why? Because, she said, her family would not approve. Well, it may have been true, but, since receiving her letter, I know there was another reason.

But I must begin at the beginning. I was born in Barcelona in 1929.

My father, Vicente Ortiz, was a lorry driver and mechanic. I hardly remember him and what I tell you about him was mostly told to me by my mother. She died eight years ago, here, in this house. According to her, he was too clever for his own good. A kindly uncle with no children of his own had paid for him to be educated, but education only made him discontented with his lot in life. He worked for a furniture manufacturer and was an active member of CNT, the anarchist trades union. When the military rising began in July 1936, he joined the CNT militia and went away to fight. From then on we saw little of him.

"You must understand I left Spain before my tenth birthday and have never been back since. It is almost as much a foreign country to me as it is to you. I have studied its history because it is the land of my birth and I feel I know it well, but only as a student, not as a patriot, not even as an exile. It was different for my mother. She regarded herself as a Catalan first and last. She remained loyal all her life to the things Franco swept away. She cheered the day he died. She would have danced on his grave if she could. The Civil War never ended for her. It went on burning inside her head. For me it is just a childhood memory of noise and confusion.

"We lived with my mother's parents in the Gracia district of the city. My mother worked as a seamstress at the Fabra and Coats factory.

My grandmother took in laundry and looked after me and my grandfather. He walked with a stick, trailing one leg. It had been damaged in an accident at the locomotive works where he had been employed in his youth. We were poor, but happy, at least as far as I was concerned. After the rising, the workers took control in Barcelona. The revolution had come. Or so it seemed. Certainly my family believed it.

Until the following spring anyway, when it began to disintegrate in squabbling and fighting between factions. Stalinists and Trotskyites 330 R O B E R T G O D D A R D.