THIRTY-TWO

Jean-Philippe Worth shook his head and stalked away, back to the great blue door of the House of Worth, only two buildings down the block. M. Poiret greeted me, as I stood with my mouth open. “Mme Chapman, congratulate me. Today is the first day of the Paul Poiret maison de couture, my own house of fashion!”

“Congratulations. I had no idea you planned to open your own shop. Was M. Worth also surprised?”

He laughed. “You might say so. Come.” He took my elbow and led me through the glass door. “Magnifique, is it not?” He swept an arm around the room. It was modest compared to the House of Worth, of course. A single large room, with light from the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that faced the street. Tables of luscious fabrics were placed close enough to the windows to lure passersby. As you got deeper into the room, iron chandeliers in the newest curlicue style hung from the ceiling, and S-shaped plush couches, as well as exotic looking carved tables, were placed around a large oriental rug. I realized that M. Poiret, too, was using Art Nouveau elements in his design. There were vases and lamps with the curvy, fantastic shapes that made you think of a dream, or of how the world looked when it flashed by as you rode a carousel. The gowns and walking suits displayed on several wax figures were of a simple form that somehow fit with the climbing vines and curlicues of the room’s decorations. It made a strong impression on me.

M. Poiret seemed satisfied by my reaction. “Bon. You like it, yes?”

“It’s quite wonderful.”

He grinned at me. “Perhaps you must have one of my creations.”

“I’m sure I couldn’t afford it.”

“Ah, but you see, one of the things I learned from Worth and Doucet—you dress the women who are admired by other women and then they all come. It is an investment. I know several actresses from my time at Worth. I will offer them something unique. They will wear it, and everyone will be amazed and say, ‘I must have that as well!’” He was rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

“I’m afraid no one would see it, if I wore your creation,” I told him. “I’m only a social secretary, not an actress. And, right now, poor Mrs. Palmer is not attending social functions because her husband is still recovering.”

“So I have heard. I am very sorry for what has happened. But Mrs. Palmer, now there is a lady whose style is copied by everyone.” There was a glint in his eye, so I knew he had hopes that I would somehow help him to sell his wares to my employer. Poor Bertha, she was not in any shape to care for new gowns. But I would not confide in him about that.

There was a handsome walking suit on one of the wax figures. I stepped towards it, but M. Poiret led me to another figure wearing a coat of black wool that hung straight down in graceful folds. “You see this? The Princess Bariatinsky, she refused it! And M. Worth, he complains to me. She tells him when fellows run after her sleigh she has their heads cut off and she says, ‘We put them in sacks just like that.’ Sacks! Can you imagine? It was the end. It was, as you say, the last straw. I can no longer work there. You will see. The great Réjane, the actress, you know? She will wear it. She was made famous by the cloak I made for her in Zara. She knows how to carry it off.”

Somehow I doubted that wearing his creation was what had made the actress famous. More likely it was she who had advanced his career by the move, but I hid a smile. Turning to admire a beautiful gown in transparent tulle over taffeta, with a high waist and a very straight skirt, I said to him, “So, it’s not just the fried potatoes anymore?”

He grinned. “No, indeed. It will be everything. You will see. I will revolutionize the couture. It is my time.”

I suppose he had to have that amount of confidence to start such a bold enterprise two doors down from the House of Worth. “Well, I wish you very good luck. It must have taken a great deal of money to start out on your own like this.”

“Luck, it helps with the money,” he told me. “But, for the success, it is talent that is needed. For the money, some luck at the racetrack, some interested investors, some lady friends who have money, it is all that is required. But now the talent will make the success.”

I saw two saleswomen in the corner of the room. The stock and the staff must have been quite costly. Suddenly, I recognized Mlle Arquette as one of the women. I must have looked surprised, as M. Poiret said to me, “Yes, you see Mademoiselle has come with me.” He beckoned her over. “She recognizes the talent, the future!”

I exchanged greetings and the woman gave me a little curtsy. I could see why M. Worth was not happy with the move of his protégé. But, then, apparently M. Worth had not liked the designs of M. Poiret—it was his brother, Gaston, who had hired the younger man. I had assumed that Mlle Arquette was a fixture at the House of Worth. It seemed I was wrong. Either she had a lot of confidence in the designs of the young Poiret or she had some other link to him that made her give up her position to join the new house. It was curious.

I wished them success again and left the new store, deciding to continue walking back to the rue Brignole. I had a lot to think about. I wondered about how Poiret had been able to come up with all of the money that must have been needed. I couldn’t help thinking of the jewel thefts and how timely they might have been for a young designer who needed cash to start his own maison de couture. He and Mlle Arquette had both been present at the events where the robberies happened. And as for Denise Laporte, they both would have known the young woman. Despite reports that her lover was a foreigner and the claims that her lover was Mr. Palmer, I wondered if Poiret could be the father of her child? Certainly they would have met at Worth and possibly—if she made demands just when he was about to put all of his resources and energy into starting his own establishment—it might have caused a problem for him. If he had committed, or participated in, the robberies and she knew about it, her silence would be critical to the success of his plans. I could picture him fuming at hearing of the rejection of the coat by the Russian princess. What would he do if he then had to face the demands of a pregnant mistress? Would he succumb to rage? It was not a pretty picture but it was possible.

Still, all of this was nothing but imagining. The father of Denise Laporte’s unborn child might have been anyone. The police thought that it was Honoré Palmer, as the countess suggested to Grace. I knew that couldn’t be, but why not Poiret? Or even Lord James? M. Jean-Philippe Worth was known to have kept a mistress in the past. After all, his daughter was the child of such a relationship. And what about Mlle Andrée? Could she have discovered a liaison of her father’s and been moved to strangle the girl? Or what about her fiancé, Louis Cartier? In some ways I would have preferred to find the culprit in the Johnstone household, but it seemed unlikely to me that Mr. Johnstone would have had such a relationship. I was ashamed to admit that I found Lydia so unlikeable that I could imagine her strangling the girl, but what would her motive have been? I knew it was even more likely that the man in Denise’s life was someone I knew nothing about but somehow I was still convinced that her death was related to the jewel thefts. They had stopped while Honoré Palmer was imprisoned. Now that he was released, would they start again? I supposed women with valuable jewels must have heard about the thefts and would now be on their guard. Perhaps they were all taking the advice of Mr. Johnstone and wearing fakes until the police caught the thief.

I was lost in my musing when suddenly I heard my name called. Looking up, I saw that I was in Place Vendôme, in front of the new Ritz hotel. Turning, I saw Consuelo Vanderbilt stepping down from her carriage. She greeted me with a warmth that could only come from a young woman who was bored by the formal duties that fell to her so often. I had to remind myself that she was now the Duchess of Marlborough. She swept me up, insisting I join her in the hotel’s garden café. My company would allow her to dismiss both her female companion, who followed her like a lap dog, and the male relation detailed to accompany her. I took pity and agreed to lunch with her.

How could I refuse an invitation to join the throngs of beautifully dressed women seated on light green chairs, at tables covered with white linen and decorated with delicate vases of irises and lilies? We were promptly seated under one of the pastel-striped awnings in the garden, which was tucked away at the center of the building, surrounded by pots of rose bushes, and open to the sky. Across from us there was a line of small green trees with lights strung festively in their branches. The entire area hummed with the conversations of women under their enormous hats, all of them wearing high-necked summer frocks of silk trimmed with falls of delicate lace. There was a scent of roses in the air.

We were quickly supplied with a porcelain teapot and cups. The gleam of silver and shine of crystal made it all seem very new. The linen napkins at each place were even trimmed with lace. Sitting down with a view of the pretty garden, I looked across at Connie’s dark brown eyes, set in her oval face. She did indeed look a bit desperate in her boredom. As she told me of the many formal receptions and salons she was required to attend, my mind was moving in the background, forming a plan.

She seemed to want to hear about my life outside the stiff circles she inhabited. In an unfailingly polite manner, she questioned me closely about all of my activities. I could see she was envious of the time I’d spent with Mary Cassatt at Beaufresne. She pouted and complained she would never be allowed to get away like that. I was going to explain the very unhappy circumstances that had led to my flight from Paris, but on the spur of the moment I decided, instead, to recruit her. If there was anyone who could be more enticed by the opportunity to help trap a jewel thief, I doubted I was acquainted with them. And if there was any risk in my plan, I thought the Duchess of Marlborough was well able to cope with it. Besides, she was there, and she was in need of some excitement. That was my only excuse for involving her. But, for myself, I needed to take some action. I was at a dead end when it came to discovering how the two women had died and who was ultimately responsible. But it still seemed that we ought to at least be able to identify the jewel thief. And I was convinced that if we did so the threads would lead us back to the strangling death of one woman and the fall to her death of the other. The current stalemate was so frustrating that I was sure the action of laying a trap would shake something loose, so I was determined to at least try.