‘Good Lord! What would have happened if she’d fallen?’

‘She’d have been dead. Or so badly injured she’d never have walked again.’

‘Dangerous place, the theatre.’

And a breeding ground for all kinds of overheated nonsense, he reckoned. Scandal, exaggeration, petty jealousies. He was allowing his own tolerance of gossip to put him off track and guided Francine Raissac back on to the subject he wanted to pursue. ‘These clothes the generous Miss Baker gives you – where do they come from?’

‘Gifts. They arrive at the theatre in boxes for her to try. If she doesn’t like something, she’ll tell me to take it away. I found her knee deep in Paul Poiret samples the other day. Wonderful things! She’d just had an almighty quarrel with him and was throwing the whole lot away. Before she’d even tried them on!’ The girl was filling the space between them with irrelevant chatter, taking her time to get his measure, he guessed. And, unconsciously, going in exactly the direction he’d planned to lead her.

‘Does she have a preferred designer?’

‘Hard to say. I doubt if she can tell one style from another. She hates turning up for fittings so they take a chance on what she’ll like and send her lots of their designs, hoping she’ll be seen about town wearing them . . . I think Madame Vionnet suits her best and Schiaparelli . . . her bias cut is very flattering . . . Lanvin . . . of course . . .’

‘And your outlet for these dazzling couture items?’ he asked. ‘I’m assuming you don’t acquire them simply to decorate your room.’

‘I send them on to my mother. She has a little business in Lyon. We started it together when my father died. Location de costumes – but not your usual rag and bone enterprise. We’re building up a well-heeled client list – plenty of money about down there. Industry’s booming and it’s a very long way from Paris. Everyone wants a Paris model for her soirée!’ She indicated her sewing machine. ‘I can undertake adjustments here at source if I have a client’s measurements. Then the lady’s box is delivered and she tells her friends it’s straight from Paris – just a little confection she’s had specially run up for the Mayor’s Ball or whatever the event . . . And the label – should her friend happen to catch a glimpse of it – has a good deal to say about the success of her husband’s enterprise. And her taste, of course. We rent out things by the day, the week. A surprising number we sell.’

‘I’m talking to someone with a keen eye for fashion then? Someone acquainted with the work of the top designers of Paris?’ he said, raising an admiring eyebrow.

‘I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk fashion,’ she said doubtfully, ‘but – yes – you could say that. I could have been a mannequin if I’d been three inches taller. If I’d been five inches taller I could have been a dancer. But I’m not really interested in “could have been”. I’m a going-to-be,’ she said with emphasis. ‘Successful. Rich. I haven’t found my niche quite yet. But I will.’ And, angrily: ‘It won’t, of course, be in the professions or politics or any of the areas men reserve for themselves. We can’t vote . . . we can’t even buy contraceptives,’ she added, deliberately to embarrass him.

‘But some girls have the knack of attracting money and don’t hesitate to flaunt it . . . Does it annoy you – in the course of your work – to be seen in rusty black uniform dresses when the clientele are peacocking about in haute couture?’

‘No. Why would it? The black makes me faceless, invisible. The work is badly paid – no more than a starvation wage – but the tips are good. Men are so used to being greeted by old harridans with scarlet claws whining for their petit bénéfice, they are rather more generous to me than they ought to be. Sometimes, I flirt with the older ones,’ she said with a challenge in her look. ‘And, before you ask – no, I don’t take it any further. But they toy with the illusion that it might develop into an extra item on the programme and tip accordingly. No man wants to be perceived as a tight-wad.’

‘A five franc tip?’ he reminded her.

The eyes rolled again. ‘I pitied that girl!’

‘Ah yes. Now tell me . . . the dress she was wearing . . .’

She put her hand over her mouth and stared at him over it. ‘Ah! So you really did come here to talk fashion! Well, I talked myself into that, didn’t I?’

‘You did rather,’ he agreed. ‘So, come on! Expert that you are – I think we’ve established that much – tell me all. You divulged almost nothing to the Chief Inspector. What was it now . . .? Under twenty-five and fair? Oh, yes? Bit sketchy, I thought. Huh! Your poor old ten franc tip with his rheumy old eyes gave a fuller description of the disappearing blonde from thirty yards away! A seam by seam account of her gown! And he wouldn’t know his Poiret from his Poincaré . . . I want to know everything about her appearance and – perhaps more importantly – why you chose to pull the wool over Inspector Acid Drop’s eyes.’

She went to sit at the bottom of her bed, demurely adjusting the belt of her Chinese gown, tucking up her bare feet under her. Joe swallowed. ‘Man Ray, where are you? You should be here with your camera, fixing this moment,’ he was thinking, seized and dazzled by the theatricality of the scene. This girl with her high cheekbones, sleek black hair, snub nose and huge, intelligent eyes made Kiki of Montparnasse look ordinary. He reined in his thoughts. She was also deliberately distracting him, making time to weigh his question, possibly to plan a deceitful answer. After a further diverting shrug of the shoulder, she began her account.

‘Well, for a start, it was expensive – eight hundred francs at least, probably more. That shot silk fabric – there’s not a great deal of it about yet and the designer who’s been using it this season is Lanvin. Her shoes were Chanel T-straps. Blue satin. Her opera cloak was silk. Midnight blue. She shopped about a bit, this girl, but it was all well put together. She was carrying it under her arm – the cloak. When she came up the stairs. Her escort hung it up at the back of the booth. They often do that. Sometimes it’s to avoid tipping at the vestiaire but with the box clientele it’s usually to avoid the queue to pick it up at the end.’ She gave a twisted smile. ‘The gentlemen don’t like to be kept waiting at this stage of their evening. Now I did manage to catch a glimpse of the label on her cape. It was a Cresson. Rue de la Paix.’

‘Are you able to give me a description of this garment – an idea of the fabric?’ he asked unemphatically, pencil poised.

She thought for a moment, and deciding apparently that the information was routine and could not harm her in any way, chose to co-operate. He noted the details. In a show of helpfulness which told him he was almost certainly heading down a cul-de-sac, she even got up and walked to a basket overflowing with fabric remnants. Stirring them about, she finally produced, with an exclamation of triumph, a piece of heavy silk. Dark blue silk.

‘Not this exact fabric but – very nearly. Her cloak was made of some stuff like this.’

He thanked her and put it away in his pocket.

‘And – Cresson . . . Lanvin . . . Chanel . . . you say. These are all impressive names you mention, I think?’

‘The very best.’

‘With a distinguished client list?’

‘Of course.’

‘And if I were to traipse along the rue de la Paix to the boutiques of those you’ve mentioned and apply a little pressure or charm or cunning I might find the same name coming up?’

‘If you choose to waste your time like that . . . I wouldn’t bother. Some of these houses are hysterical about piracy. And they’re always wary of having their clients snatched by a rival. The vendeuses are well trained and they have a nose for wealth.’ She looked at him critically then smiled. ‘You’re an impressive man but you don’t look like the kind who’d spend a fortune indulging his girl!’