FOURTEEN

Jean-Philippe Worth had not been content to display his gowns on headless mannequins, as Doucet and Paquin had done. Instead, he had dramatized a whole story, laid out in a long corridor, and peopled entirely by wax figures of women. The plaque on the flowered black ironwork at the bottom of the long glassed-in case was labeled, “Going to the Drawing Room.” The figures each had individual features and were placed in various poses that were quite lifelike. The background was of cream-colored walls with moldings of garlands. Panels of pale, striped fabrics were inset on the walls, and a large French door with mirrored panels stood, closed, in the middle of the corridor. Perhaps that led to the drawing room they were preparing to enter. Several other mirrors set throughout helped to make the area seem even larger than it was.

Entranced, I moved through the crowd of talking and drinking live people to get to the beginning of the scene at the far left. It started with two women who looked as if they had just come in from the outdoors. One was lounging on a plush sofa with her arms spread out along the mahogany back. She wore a gauzy evening gown, the train of which was draped on the seat beside her. There were flowers pinned to her chignon. At her side stood a woman wearing an elaborate hat tilted over one eye and a short jacket. Just beyond these two figures, a maid was arranging a samovar and small teacups on a table. One of the things that made the tableau so lifelike was the inclusion of some figures in less formal dress. A tall woman wore a hat with a fur fringe and a magnificently embroidered walking suit made up of a long coat over a full skirt in vibrant colors. She appeared to be talking to a woman in a silk evening gown of gorgeous panels printed with a flower motif.

Two more women in high-necked, elegant day dresses, and large hats with veils, were to the right of the center mirrored door. The second wore an outfit of black chiffon and taffeta that was extremely sleek and modern. The transparent chiffon stretched across the arms and shoulders alluringly, fell in generous folds around the arms, and then was gathered at the neck and wrists. The mist of black chiffon and the sheen of the taffeta clinging to the figure made it seem a perfect fit for the woman. It was a style I had seen few in the salons of Paris carry off successfully.

These women appeared to be watching another wearing full court dress who was being helped by two servants, one of whom wore street clothes and might have been a seamstress come to help with final adjustments. She knelt and seemed to be straightening the yards of material that made up the immense train of the satin and lace gown. The other servant wore a maid’s apron and stood beside the court figure with her arms extended to hold a fantastically embroidered evening cloak, as if it had just been handed to her. The main figure had her back to the viewers as she put the final touches on her bodice, viewing herself in a gilt-framed mirror. The placement allowed you to appreciate the magnificent needlework that went into the production of her dress, which was encrusted with pearls and sequins.

I was about to step closer, to try to get a better view of the figure’s front in the mirror, when I noticed M. Paul Poiret talking to a short man with a waxed mustache, who wore stylish evening dress. The young couturier’s eyes rose from the man’s face and he recognized me. He started, as if alarmed. Turning so that his back was to my approach, he spoke to his companion, who then quickly slipped away. Poiret turned back to me, composed this time. “Mme Chapman, we meet again at a celebration. I sincerely hope this one will come to a much better conclusion than the last excursion at which I had the pleasure of meeting you.”

I put my hand to my neck where I wore the small string of pearls I’d gotten from my mother. They were not worth much compared to the jewels owned by the other women in this room but they were important to me. Poiret noticed and raised an eyebrow, which caused me to blush. “Tut, tut,” he said. “I see we are all being quite modest in our display of the bijoux tonight. Don’t be alarmed. It is only to be expected. The last thing M. Worth would want is another incident such as at the engagement fête.” He shook his head.

“Surely no such thing will happen with all the policemen present,” I protested.

“We hope not. But come, how do you like our exhibit? It is good, no? I can tell you that there were endless discussions about it, and disputes about what each madame must be doing.”

“I think it’s marvelous.” I moved up to the railing, which stopped a viewer about a foot from the glass wall of the exhibit. “They’re so lifelike, one could almost think they’re actually talking to each other in there.”

“Yes, yes. That is it. These two down here are telling the lady in the court dress how she is to behave and what she should change in her appearance before she enters.”

“And the woman who is straightening her train, even her dress is quite lovely, and I like that hat.” The figure kneeling was more like a member of the staff of the House of Worth come to assist, than an ordinary maid of the house. She quite realistically wore a simple dress of black with white dots and a band of white lace on the arms. A black silk rose was at the high neck of the dress and the hat was a modest one with a brim over the eyes and a soft plush crown. “Is that one of your fried potatoes?”

“Indeed, you have guessed it! I am delighted that you appreciate it. Yes, to make it more real the servants, as well as the mesdames, are present.”

“I was just trying to see the front of the figure looking in the mirror,” I told him, standing on tiptoe and straining my neck. “There seems to be something familiar about her.”

“Ah, but she is not real, madame. Real as she may appear, she is wax, like the others. I don’t know who Worth used as models for the wax figures, but she is not real, I assure you. Even we would not make the mannequins to stand for such a long period of time. It would be cruel!”

“No, it isn’t that. It’s something else.” I strained to see. There was something bothering me about the figure and, at first, I couldn’t think what it could be. But then I noticed the choker of pearls around the neck of the mannequin. Surely, it couldn’t be? If only I could see the front I might rid myself of the suspicion forming in my mind. “M. Poiret, is there any way I could get a closer look at that figure? It’s the pearls, I just want to see them.” Poiret looked at me as if I was a little mad. “I know it sounds odd, but I really think you should look at those jewels.”

“Well,” he said, taking a look around, “it’s really not permitted. But, of course, there is a door in the glass that we used to go in and dress the figures and to stage them. I don’t believe anyone is paying attention. They have started to serve the champagne, and everyone speaks.” It was true, the buzz of conversation had become a roar as people filled the room, and no one was actually paying attention to the exhibit. They were all catching up and exchanging gossip before the speeches started, I presumed. Poiret’s eyes sparkled. “Allons-y. Come. Vite. Quickly, and no one will see.”

He grabbed my hand and pulled me down to the far right end of the exhibit then, bending down, he released a catch so that the piece of glass swung out towards us. He helped me step up into the scene before he stiffened, as someone spoke his name. I glanced back and saw M. Worth, with an angry look on his face, making his way through the crowd. That made my mission even more urgent. I turned back and moved deliberately into the tableau until I could see the front of the figure in court dress. She looked down at me coldly but suddenly I realized I was right. Around her neck were seven horizontal rows of pearls, divided by vertical strings of tiny diamonds, with a large pearl hanging on a pendant in the front. It was Bertha Palmer’s pearl choker!

Before I could say that out loud, my eyes were pulled down the front of the heavy satin dress, where more pearls had been sewn on in curling designs, to the floor at the wax figure’s feet. Lying at an angle were a pair of plebian, scuffed little black boots of worn leather. Just as I began to wonder who had left them so incongruously, I realized they were on feet, and peeking out from the magnificent evening cloak, which hung from the hands of the wax servant girl, was a pile of white muslin with little red and blue flowers printed on it. Perhaps I should have screamed or fainted, but I never do that sort of thing. Instead, I strode forward and roughly pushed aside the heavy cloak to see the rest of the figure. The young milliner I had first seen outside the House of Worth lay on the floor in her flowered dress, with the royal blue satin ribbon that should have been around her waist garroting her throat. Her eyes stared unseeing, and her mouth grimaced in a ruined face that had a bluish tinge to it. The girl was most definitely dead.