A sleepy face peered round the door at him, focused blearily on his card and, after a delay calculatedly long enough to register her protest, she opened the door with a grudging: ‘You’d better come in, I suppose.’

Her room was untidy and, Joe thought at first glimpse, perfectly charming though he would not have relished the task of carrying out a detailed search of the premises. The afternoon sun streamed in through the window illuminating, on the opposite wall, an open armoire densely packed with dresses of all colours and fabrics. They spilled out to hang in bunches on hangers along the picture rail. A treadle sewing machine with a piece of work still clamped across the needle plate stood under the window to catch the light. Against one wall of the single-roomed apartment was a bed, made up and covered with a gold brocade eiderdown. A low table held a row of unwashed coffee cups and one or two baker’s shop wrappers covered in crumbs and patched with grease.

Once he was inside, she rounded on him. ‘Two interviews in as many hours? What’s going on? I’m a witness not a suspect! Couldn’t you leave me alone to get over it? And why are they sending me the handsome inspectors? Is this a new tactic? Are there any more of you lurking round the corner? I’m not in the chorus line, you know! Though you seem to think so – are those for me?’ She seized the roses and went to put them in a jam jar that she filled with water from the wash basin in a corner of the room. ‘Doesn’t it cross your mind that you might be ruining my good name? Arriving here with flowers? Wish I’d got dressed . . .’

Francine Raissac was wearing a creased white silk dressing gown embroidered – and rather richly embroidered – with black and red dragons. Her eyes were puffy and last night’s mascara smudgily outlined her dark eyes, giving her the comical air of a cross panda. Joe said as much and she looked at him first in astonishment, then with a flash of amusement. He rushed on while he had this slight advantage. ‘Handsome inspectors, did you say? I thought I was the only stunner they could field . . .?’

‘The previous one was better,’ she said, looking closely at him, giving the question her serious attention. Her response told him the light approach was probably the effective one. ‘You’re very nearly handsome. But you’re older and you don’t have a Ronald Coleman moustache.’

‘Ah! I think I recognize my colleague, Inspector Bonnefoye?’ said Joe, trying to keep a tetchy note out of his voice.

‘Jean-Philippe.’ She managed a tease and a confirmation in one word. ‘You mean you didn’t know he was coming here?’ she asked. ‘Doesn’t the right hand know what the left’s getting up to at the Sûreté? Or aren’t you speaking the same language?’

‘We have different roles,’ Joe said, recovering from his surprise. ‘My questions will not be the same as his. He has other fish to fry.’

‘Ah, yes, of course. I understand that.’

‘I am, as you’ve noticed, English. I’m representing the interests of the gentleman who was taken in as a suspect.’

‘Not the interests of the murdered Englishman, then?’ she asked sharply.

‘His interests also,’ Joe hurried to add. ‘Indeed, I am shortly to meet his widow and conduct her to an identification of the body. An inconvenience to the French authorities and an embarrassment to us that what may prove to be a quarrel between two of my countrymen should be played out on French soil. I am doing what I can to assist the Police Judiciaire and working under the auspices of the British Embassy, of course. Interpol also, of which –’

‘All right . . . all right! You’re a big shot! Got it! Will Your Eminence deign to take a seat?’ She heaved an armful of fabrics off a sofa and Joe lowered himself on to it. ‘Oh . . . carry on then! I’m listening. I suppose I should be grateful they’ve not sent old sourpuss . . . the Chief Inspector . . . um . . .’

‘Fourier?’

‘That’s the one!’ She rolled her eyes. ‘He interviewed me at the theatre. Looks and talks as though he’s sucking an acid drop.’

‘You take, I detect,’ he said with a grin, pulling a straight pin from under him, ‘more than an amateur interest in couture?’

‘I’m sure you’re not here to count my dresses and check their provenance.’ She sounded slightly on her guard. ‘I’ll tell you straight, Mr Detective, that every last frock you can see has been acquired legally. Working in a theatre, they’re easy to pick up, if you know the right people. Did you know there’s a whole workshop underneath in the basement, sewing away day and night? I go down there sometimes and chat to the girls. They’re always pleased enough to hear news from the world above! The show clothes aren’t much use to me, of course – all ostrich feathers, tulle and lamé – but the girls pass on the occasional remnant that I can use.

‘The stars are my best source. Now – Josephine! She’s incredibly generous and if you know just when to show your face – as I do – she’ll shower you with stuff she doesn’t want or gowns she’s only worn once. We’re much the same size and sometimes she asks me to model a gown for her to help her make up her mind.’

So that accounted for the head-hugging hairdo with the over-sized curl slicked on to her forehead. Francine had a dark complexion for a Frenchwoman, Josephine had a light skin for a black American. The two girls met somewhere in the middle. But the conscious attempt to mirror the looks of the star was more than just flattery. Josephine must have found it useful to see herself from a distance in this bright young woman. And the thought came to him: ‘Probably enjoys her company, too.’

‘You get on well with the star?’

‘Yes, I like her. We French do like and admire her. It’s the Americans – her own countrymen – and the English who give her a rough time. Her dancing is too scandalous for some and she’s black. There are those – and some are influential people – who’d like to see her closed down and put on the next liner home. Not the French. We don’t care at all about her colour. And her morals . . .’ Francine shrugged. ‘Well, that’s up to her, isn’t it? She’s entertaining and stylish and we love her for it.’

‘I expect she suffers professional jealousy – one so successful at such a young age? What’s the name of the Queen of Paris Music Hall? She must be feeling a bit miffed!’

‘Mistinguett? Yes, she’s a rival but she’s big-hearted, you know. Reaching the end of her career . . . she must be in her fifties, though she still has the best legs in Paris. She can afford to rise above it. But there are two younger stars, French, both, at the Casino de Paris and the Moulin Rouge, who hate Josephine’s guts. She’s rather stolen their thunder. Either one might have hoped to inherit Mistinguett’s ostrich feather crown as meneuse de revue. And one of them has a very wealthy protector. A banker. You’d know his name. He sends his Rolls Royce to the stage door for his little mouse every night.’

‘Does Josephine mind? All this antipathy?’

‘Too busy enjoying herself. I’d say she doesn’t give a damn! In fact,’ she added dubiously, a sly, slanting question in her eyes, ‘those close to her think she doesn’t care enough. For public opinion or her own safety.’

Joe seized on the word: ‘Safety?’ he murmured.

‘Everyone thought when she had her accident last year –’

‘Accident?’

‘Not actually. It could have been nasty . . . In one of her acts, she’s lowered in a flowery globe down over the orchestra pit. A breathtaking bit of theatre! Luckily she’d decided to rehearse in the damn contraption before the actual performance.’ Francine shuddered. ‘She was on her way down from the roof in this thing when one of the cables jammed. That’s what they said. A mechanic was sacked afterwards and everyone heaved a sigh of relief. The globe suddenly tilted over and swung wide open. She ought to have been thrown out into the pit. But she’s a strong girl with fast reactions. She jumped for one of the metal struts and hung on like a trapeze artist until someone could get up into the roof and haul her up again.’