The Angel Downstairs, page 6
‘What about her? Like she told you: she’s an artists’ model. Very good, actually.’
‘And she’s your lover?’
Eric regarded her coolly. ‘That sounds like an accusation.’
Hannah shook her head. ‘I didn’t mean it that way. I suppose I meant: is she special to you or...?’ She stopped herself short.
He smiled. ‘Dear Hannah, how very English you are sometimes. I’m guessing you want to ask if I have a host of women at my beck and call to warm my bed? Is that right?’
She coloured. ‘No, it’s not. Or perhaps it is. I don’t want to say something wrong and feel a fool when I go for breakfast and find another woman I don’t know sitting at the table. I’d like to be prepared.’
Eric finished eating the second biscuit and paused before replying.
‘If you find another woman sitting at my table, you have my permission to interrogate her. Except after a party. Then, you never know. I got up the one time to find a troupe of cheerleaders sleeping wherever they could find, all over the salon. The strange thing is, I didn’t remember them being at the party at all and I’m sure I didn’t invite them. They were with a visiting American baseball team apparently.’
Hannah grinned. ‘You make these things up don’t you?’
‘Certainly not. Anyway, I’m going to grab a quick shower then I’m going out. I’ll be eating out but you can sort yourself out can’t you?’
‘But we have to talk Papa.’
‘No we don’t. But I do need to go out.’
‘When will you be back?’
Eric faced Hannah and took hold of her by both upper arms, shaking her gently.
‘Hannah, stop it. Enough. You chose to come here; I don’t know why. I did not invite you and there is nothing I want to talk about, repeat nothing. I’m happy to see you so have your holiday here if you want but don’t pester me. I will not be cross-examined and if you keep doing that I’ll ask you to leave.’
She looked shocked and he quickly turned and left.
Standing in the shower a few minutes later, Eric savoured the sensation of the hot water running down his face and body. It helped to clear his head, to calm him. He shouldn’t have spoken to Hannah like that but she was too intrusive. Those big blue eyes of hers bored into him as if she were trying to read his mind. She really shouldn’t go there. There was a lot she didn’t know and he was determined to keep it that way.
He slipped out of the apartment without seeing her again, opened the gate onto the street, looked once up and down, then set off for the metro station. There was someone he needed to see, someone from his past who might have the information Eric needed and, though he didn’t relish the encounter, he didn’t know who else to ask.
He found the nightclub, Le Rossignol, on a side street up in Montmartre. He’d heard on the grapevine that it was still there, the small but popular business Pascal Lechauve had started years before, when they were both young. Eric wasn’t a nightclub man but, as far as he knew, the man still both ran it and lived above the club. They had been children together in the same village and, though in different years, had both gone to the same school. But, while Paris was the place they had both chosen to establish themselves, life had ultimately taken them in very different directions.
Eric pressed the buzzer outside and waited. There was no response. He tried again. A moment later the tiny intercom groaned wheezily.
‘Oui?’
‘Bonsoir. C’est Eric Dechansay. J’ai besoin de te parler.’ I need to talk.
There was a nerve-chilling silence before Eric heard the lock on the door release. He opened it and went inside. It was a small, dark foyer with just one feeble light, high up on the wall to his left. Double doors to his right led to the dormant nightclub. Ahead of him was a flight of concrete stairs. He climbed them to a door which already stood ajar. Pascal stood back to let Eric in then went to stand by a drinks cabinet.
The apartment was equally gloomy. It was over-furnished and smelt of cigarette smoke. The floor was carpeted and felt sticky.
Pascal looked expectantly at Eric. ‘What’s your poison these days then? Wine? Whisky? Vodka? I’m out of brandy.’
‘Red wine, thanks.’
‘Take a seat.’
The chair Eric sat on was upholstered in a crimson velvet fabric. It too felt tacky as if too many drinks had been spilt on it and inadequately wiped off.
‘It’s been a long time,’ said Pascal, lounging back on the nearby sofa. ‘I hear life’s been treating you pretty well though: exhibitions; wealthy patrons; some award or other. And you look well. A bit heavier of course. Like me.’ He patted his generous paunch with a certain amount of pride.
‘I’m doing OK. But you’ve got a good business here too I understand.’
Pascal shrugged and puffed up his lips dismissively. ‘Yeah, not bad.’ He took a swig of his vodka and regarded Eric speculatively. ‘So, I’m guessing you don’t want to buy a month’s pass to the club, and, in case you weren’t aware, I know nothing about painting. What exactly was it you wanted to talk about?’
‘Gustave Daumier,’ said Eric baldly. ‘I want to know what you know about him.’
‘I know what you know. We all went to the same school after all.’ He paused and drank a little more vodka. ‘You knew him pretty well, I thought. Better than me, they say.’
‘Not so well,’ Eric said quickly.
‘No?’
‘No. No better than anyone else.’
Pascal looked at him long and hard. ‘Well what I do know is that he’s not someone to mess with. But I imagine you already know that.’
‘I thought he’d died in prison, somewhere down south.’
‘You’re out of touch, Eric. That was an old rumour. Of course Gustave has generated a lot of rumours over the years. He was in prison though, but I heard he was out. Maybe.’
‘So where is he now?’
Pascal shrugged again and took another mouthful of vodka.
‘Is he in Paris?’ pressed Eric.
‘I heard he might be. But I’ve heard rumours that he’s in Bordeaux too. I haven’t seen him personally if that’s what you mean. If he is alive, I assume he’s getting old like the rest of us. In fact he’s a little older, isn’t he? Must be pushing seventy now, don’t you think? But we’re none of us what we were.’ Pascal almost smiled. ‘We were adventurous in our youth though, eh? Of course we had to be.’
Adventurous. That was a euphemism if ever Eric had heard one.
‘Do you ever go back?’ demanded Pascal in a sudden change of tone.
‘Back?’
‘To Béledon-sur-Loire.’
Eric shook his head. ‘Nothing to go back for.’
Pascal was silent a moment, taking great interest in examining the vodka in his glass.
‘I hear Gustave had a son. Robert, I think his name is. Sounds like he’s even more ruthless than Gustave was. C’est son père tout craché, comme on dit.’ Chip off the old block, as they say.
‘And is Robert in Paris?’
‘I’ve no idea. Why are you so interested?’
‘I’d heard rumours too. I wasn’t sure if they were true.’
Pascal did smile this time, a sly, supercilious smile. He knew it was a lie.
‘You know there were stories going round, years ago, about things you might have got up to. But then you disappeared.’
‘I worked in England for a while after the war.’
Pascal nodded slowly as if he already knew that.
Eric got to his feet and put the remains of the cheap, vinegary wine down on a nearby cupboard.
‘Thanks for the drink,’ he said. ‘And for the information.’ He paused. ‘It was good to see you again.’ Another lie.
Pascal grunted something non-committal and saw him to the door.
‘Eric?’ he said as he opened it.
‘What?’
‘If Gustave comes calling, don’t cross him. Or his son. You were always too stubborn. Don’t give them any excuse to play rough.’ He raised his eyebrows and looked at Eric pointedly. ‘If you haven’t already, that is.’
Walking down the dingy staircase, Eric heard the door close softly behind him. What a slippery character Pascal was, all oil and innuendo. Going to see him had probably been a mistake. That man would probably sell his own mother for a quick profit if she were still alive. And the conversation certainly hadn’t offered the reassurance he craved. His skin prickled with unease.
Once outside, looking up and down the street, he thought he saw a man waiting near the junction, standing still and furtively looking his way. He decided to head in the other direction. He’d find a different metro station, a different route home; he’d zig-zag streets, duck down alleyways if needs be, anything rather than be followed. He’d find a small place to eat somewhere out of the way.
There again, why bother? They knew where he lived.
*
It was eight-fifteen on the Tuesday night and Au Bout de la Rue was starting to get busy when Natalie saw Hannah walk in. Turning away from a table where she had been handing out menus, she saw the woman standing just inside the entrance, waiting to be offered a table. Years might have gone by but Natalie recognised her immediately, both from memory and from the photograph. It had to be Hannah. She remembered the bright clothes, the short, spiky hair and that challenging gaze. The woman was standing scanning the room, wearing loose, blue and purple satin trousers, a midnight blue top and a lilac jacket over. Big blue earrings dangled from her ears. Not pretty exactly but striking. Too striking: she drew attention and Natalie didn’t like that.
Natalie had regretted ringing her almost as soon as she’d done it. Now she regretted it even more. She indicated to Joséphine that she’d attend to the newcomer, grabbed a menu and went over.
‘Bonsoir Madame. Do you have a reservation?’ she enquired loudly, then hissed, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘I came to see you,’ Hannah muttered. ‘You are Natalie, aren’t you? We need to talk.’ She raised her voice and smiled. ‘Sorry no reservation. Do you perhaps have a table for one?’
Natalie was tempted to say no but it wasn’t true and the others would notice. It would only draw more attention.
‘Let me see… yes, if you’d like to come this way?’ She led Hannah to a small table against the far wall, roughly equidistant between the piano at the front and the cocktail bar at the rear where Baptiste did his magic. She handed her the menu. ‘Can I get you a drink? A cocktail perhaps?’ Jean-Luc always encouraged them to promote the cocktails – they were expensive.
‘Not at the moment, thank you.’
As Natalie returned to the serving station, she saw Baptiste’s eyes resting on her half-sister with barely disguised curiosity. Did he guess their relationship? She didn’t want him asking questions. The leggy, handsome barman, a smart but enigmatic man originally from Martinique, had a way of acquiring information. She didn’t want to be forced into talking about her father’s other family. She didn’t want to talk to Hannah either.
Edith took Hannah’s order: a green salad followed by lamb cutlets with roast potatoes and just a carafe of water to drink. The restaurant was soon full. With a background babble of chatter and laughter, the waiting staff slipped into their usual frenetic routine, hurrying to and from the kitchen, carrying meals, clearing dishes, offering dessert menus. Gabriel was proving particularly popular that night and several people approached him to make requests. Natalie wondered how he could do that – play something dramatic and classical one minute, and a jazzy number the next, often without needing the music. He rarely seemed to refuse a request.
Then it was time for his break and, delivering meals to a nearby table, she saw him wander over to Hannah’s table and stand talking to her for a couple of minutes. Why? Did he know her? How could he?
A few tables began to empty. Most of the remaining diners were still eating but Hannah wasn’t. She’d long since finished and was dawdling her way through a glass of water. She already had the bill on the table so why didn’t she pay up and go?
Hannah looked up at that moment and their eyes met. Natalie glanced round to check Jean-Luc wasn’t watching and wandered casually over to stand by Hannah’s table.
‘We cannot talk here,’ she whispered. ‘It was crazy to come. What are you doing in Paris anyway?’
‘You were the one who phoned me, remember?’ Hannah hissed back. ‘You worried me and I had holiday time owing, so I came.’
‘I only wanted to find out what you knew. I didn’t expect you to get on a plane. Why are you interfering?’
‘I’m not. I just want to know what’s going on.’
‘Look, I’ll get into trouble if I spend too long with you.’ She hesitated, flicking another nervous glance towards the kitchen door. Jean-Luc still wasn’t there. ‘Do you know Gabriel?’ she demanded. He was playing again, something quieter now, romantic.
‘I met him on Monday when I arrived. My father was having a party.’
Natalie’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re staying at his apartment?’
‘Yes.’
‘He won’t let me stay there.’ Natalie realised one of her tables had finished eating. ‘Look, I’ve got to go.’
‘OK. Meet me tomorrow.’ Hannah fixed her with her big, insistent eyes. They bored into her unflinchingly.
Natalie stared back. ‘All right, all right. The Café Mandino on the Rue du Toit Rouge. Eleven o’clock in the morning.’
‘I’ll be there.’
A few minutes later, Natalie saw Hannah pay Joséphine, get her jacket and leave.
*
Gabriel became aware of someone at his shoulder.
‘It got quite busy tonight.’
He looked round. It was Natalie.
‘It did,’ he replied.
‘Lots of requests?’
‘Quite a lot.’
The customers had all gone and he carried on collecting up his music from the top of the piano. When he’d first started, he’d kept it all tidy, pushing pieces back into his music case when he’d finished with them. At his interview, Jean-Luc had impressed on him that it was a sophisticated restaurant, that he wanted Gabriel to add to the atmosphere, not detract from it. Hence the velvet jacket and the bow tie. He’d been encouraged to play pleasing, gentle music.
But Gabriel was more used to playing in bars and downbeat music venues and, however hard he tried, ‘sophisticated’ didn’t sit well with him. Slowly the music copies started to accumulate on the piano in the heat of the moment; his bow tie, feeling too tight, invariably ended up undone and dangling. And the music, prompted often by special requests, became increasingly funky. And the customers clearly liked it – they said so. Jean-Luc couldn’t complain as they got repeat bookings and good word of mouth publicity. Gabriel and his music even reached the local press.
Now he bent over to retrieve the battered top hat which sat upside down on the floor by the side of the piano. There was a discreet sign inviting tips. Jean-Luc had encouraged it in the end; that way he didn’t have to pay as much.
‘They were an appreciative audience tonight,’ Gabriel said with a grin as he pulled out a wad of notes.
There was an awkward silence.
‘I gather you’ve met my half-sister,’ Natalie said crisply.
‘Your half-sister?’
She frowned. ‘You went over to speak to her. Hannah.’
‘’annah? I didn’t realise.’ He nodded as the information began to make sense, then he smiled. ‘I don’t see a likeness.’
‘There isn’t any.’
Gabriel was amused and struggled not to show it. ‘You don’t like her?’
‘Do you?’
He puffed out his lips, picking up the last of his music. ‘I hardly know her.’
Natalie hung around him another minute or two expectantly, then wandered off. He thought she was a nice kid but a bit clingy.
Crossing the courtyard back to his ground-floor flat, Gabriel couldn’t resist looking up to the windows of the apartment above where a couple of windows were lit up. Was Hannah staying there then? Their brief conversation at the party ran through his head again; she’d been very non-committal. Visiting, she’d said. So she was Eric’s daughter and not a lady-friend. Interesting. He let himself into his flat, still thinking about her. He rather liked her: there was something about her. She was different, intriguing. But she could be a complication, nonetheless.
Chapter 5
Hannah woke early on the Wednesday morning and rolled over to glance at her watch on the bedside cabinet. It was barely six-thirty and she lay back, still listless from an indifferent night’s sleep. The events of the last days began to parade across her mind like a series of flashbacks: her hasty decision to come to Paris; her father’s surprise at seeing her turn up in the middle of his party; the uncomfortable evening at the restaurant the previous night.
She’d felt like a duck out of water, sitting alone in Au Bout de la Rue, waiting to speak to Natalie and trying to look nonchalant. It had only served to highlight just how much of an outsider she was. She might be able to speak French fluently, could even bluff her way through French mores and etiquette when pushed, but she was English more than French and caught somewhere between the two, always had been. Or perhaps she was being melodramatic and it was just the always discomfiting experience of eating alone in a restaurant. The music had been pretty special though and she smiled now at the thought. Gabriel was seriously versatile. An intriguing man. Melt-your-heart eyes too. She pushed the slightly disconcerting thought away.
Or maybe it had nothing to do with the restaurant or her cultural insecurities or even Natalie’s cold shoulder; it was her father’s behaviour that had her doubting herself. He had returned home late the night before, had made a jovial remark about the dubbed American murder mystery she was watching on the television – ‘Is there a butler? He’s bound to have done it’ – and said he hoped she’d made herself a nice meal. But he didn’t give her a chance to say anything and had immediately retired to his room. One minute it seemed he was cracking jokes, the next he’d clam up and would be warning her off. She didn’t know what to think.
