“Of course. I remember her well. A lovely, vibrant woman. She was well-known for her salons, attracting the best and the brightest intellectuals and writers Paris had to offer throughout the years of her residency. She is greatly missed.”
Drew nodded eagerly while he listened to the answer, ready to ask his next question. “When she lived here, do you remember her ever saying anything about the de Courcelles talisman?”
The man’s brown eyes widened behind his glasses. “The talisman? Mais oui. Every true Frenchman knows of the talisman. The comtesse had it displayed in a case in her suite. I even saw it a time or two. Of course, the original talisman is just a piece of cloth, a holy relic, but the comtesse had more, shall we say, extravagant tastes and added many priceless jewels. But the true value of it was always the relic.”
Drew reached into his briefcase and pulled out the mimeographed photo. “Is this it?”
Monsieur Deneaux lowered the glasses on his nose, examining the photo. “Yes. This is what I remember being in the case. It wasn’t purple, of course.”
“Of course,” Drew said, taking back the proffered page. “It says in the article that it was stolen from the Ritz in 1942. Do you remember that?”
Monsieur Deneaux tucked his chin, making it nearly disappear into his narrow neck. “It was not stolen. Not from the Ritz. We have always had excellent security.” He seemed personally affronted.
“Yes, I know,” I reassured. “It’s only the newspapers at the time—and you know how unreliable they can be—stated it had been stolen. Can you at least share with us what you think might have happened to it? We understand that the talisman disappeared during the war, and we are merely trying to find out what happened to it.”
Apparently mollified, André nodded. “It did disappear, but it certainly wasn’t stolen. Not from the Ritz, at any rate.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I believe that it was taken by the husband of the comtesse’s granddaughter. Pierre Villon.” He said the name with such loathing that I almost expected him to spit.
“Why do you say that?” Drew asked.
“He was a French government official, a bureaucrat without much real responsibility. But he and his family lived in a very grand apartment in the sixteenth arrondissement that his position shouldn’t have afforded.”
“Was there ever any proof that he took it?” I disliked this Pierre Villon but thought I should be fair.
André shook his head, his lower lip curled in distaste. “People like him always covered their tracks, like cats with their excrement.” He tapped his forefinger against his graying temple. “But I know. I know his type. I know what he was capable of.”
“Do you know what happened to him? After the war.”
Andre shrugged. “Who knows? He disappeared at some point—I do not recall when. Like so many during the war, he just poof.” He illustrated the word by opening his fists in a starburst of fingers.
A very large woman carrying a small dog under each arm approached, calling for Monsieur Deneaux. “Please excuse me. If you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to let me know.” He bowed his goodbye, then left.
“Well, hello.”
We turned at the familiar Southern accent that stretched the two syllables of the last word into three.
Precious Dubose, immaculately turned out in ice-blue linen, smiled at us. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with that lovely Monsieur Deneaux. Actually, it was the word jewels that caught my attention. I do so love jewelry. Is there anything I might be able to help you with?”
I recalled her telling me that she had lived at the Ritz, at times with Coco Chanel. “You were here during the war, right?”
She pressed her pink lips together and looked up at the ceiling as if thinking. “Off and on. Why do you ask?”
“We’re looking for the de Courcelles talisman,” explained Drew. “It was displayed in a case in the Comtesse de Courcelles’s suite, then disappeared in 1942. My father, who was OSS during the war, was dropped into France to retrieve it, but something happened to it. We think La Fleur might have stolen it.”
Her delicate eyebrows rose. “La Fleur? I’ve always been fascinated by her. Such a woman—and such a legend. My knowledge of French history is very good, you know. If you think I can be of any help, I’d love to hear the whole story.”
Drew and I looked at each other and then back at Precious. “Three brains are always better than two,” Drew said.