Night Train to Paris by Fliss Chester (best romantic novels to read txt) 📗

coast. But the lorry that turned up, it wasn’t the Resistance. It drove them to the Gestapo headquarters and we never saw them again.’

‘I’m so sorry, Magda.’ Fen, who was usually so awkward when it came to comforting people, was led by her heart and reached out a hand to Magda. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Rose wrote to us, did you know? In New York. She tracked us down and told us she was working on something on our behalf. It gave us hope when we were at our very lowest.’ Magda paused, then continued quietly, ‘Joseph would have died rather than see that dear woman hurt. Her friendship saved our lives in more ways than one.’

‘I will find out who did this to her,’ Fen said, more confidently than she felt. Her three downs were disappearing by the minute, but she knew she had to solve this murder, for all their sakes.

She stayed and chatted to Magda for a while longer, bringing the conversation back to more jolly subjects, such as autumn fashions and speculation as to whether James and Simone would wed. Then Fen took her leave with a meaningful kiss on each cheek and carried Tipper back down the crowded and noisy staircase and out to the street where the lime trees swayed in the autumn breeze.

The last twenty-four hours had certainly been illuminating, but Fen, for all the three acrosses and six downs she was being given, was still no closer to working out who had killed Rose Coillard.

Thirty-Eight

Fen walked slowly back along the Seine from the Marais district and the Bernheims’ tiny apartment there. Tipper obediently padded along beside her, sniffing at whatever the pavement had to offer as she walked along the quayside. Her mind was alight with theories and ideas and she tried to make sense of what she had just found out. She spotted an empty bench that overlooked the river and beyond it the Île de la Cité and its most famous landmark, the cathedral church of Notre Dame.

She had to tug Tipper away from a particularly interesting pile of leaves, but he came easily enough and jumped up on her lap. As she sat, she mulled over what Magda had said to her. The Chameleon had betrayed her family at the eleventh hour with devastating and tragic consequences. And yet Rose had been in touch with the younger Bernheims all the while they were in New York. Could Rose have known who The Chameleon was? Perhaps that was the reason for her argument with Lazard on the embankment?

And poor Joseph, finding Rose just as she’d been killed and feeling like he couldn’t trust a soul, save his own wife, with the discovery. At least it narrowed down the time of the murder and married up with what James had found out from the countess about Tipper’s barking.

Fen fished around in her pocket and pulled out the tatty napkin on which she’d written out her grid. She pulled a pen out of her pocket, too, and instead of writing any more words onto the grid, she circled the word TIPPER.

As if he knew he was being thought about, the little dog pulled at his lead and Fen called him back. ‘Tipper, I wish you could talk,’ she said as she slipped the napkin back in her pocket. ‘But I suppose I’ll have to crack this on my own. Come on then, the cathedral bell says it’s almost lunchtime. Since I didn’t spend all my money on going to The Ritz last night, how about I treat us both to some steak?’

The occupation had damaged much of Paris’s ways of life, but Fen was relieved to see that the kiosks selling street art and rather dubious ‘antiques’ were still very much in action along the riverbank. They sold everything from second-hand books and sheet music to bric-a-brac and portraits. Fen had always loved browsing them as a girl and had more often than not found something to spend a few bob on. She walked along now, keeping Tipper to heel as much as possible and idly looked at the wares on sale as she decided on where might be decent for lunch.

One stall along the quayside was selling paintings in various styles. She wasn’t quite in the market for the less salubrious etchings of Salome, taken it seemed from a book or portfolio, or the ultra-modern abstract pieces, but then something caught her eye. It was a small painting in oils, beautiful in its pastel colours and Impressionist in style. It depicted a pink blossom tree, its swirling branches created by just a few dashes of powder-pink paint. Fen looked away, then turned back to look at it again. That was it… she was sure of it. It was the painting by Delance that, until a few days ago, had hung in Rose’s studio. How did it get here?

‘Excuse me, monsieur,’ Fen called the kiosk owner over to her, slightly shaking with indignation and not entirely sure how to broach the subject of the painting’s provenance.

The salesman stepped forward and eyed up Fen, and she realised that for once, with her hair tied back in a designer scarf and what looked like her very à la mode dog at her side, she might have been mistaken for one of Paris’s more wealthy citizens.

‘Oui, mademoiselle?’

Fen took a deep breath. ‘Can you tell me a bit about this painting?’

‘It’s pretty enough, isn’t it? Very nice work for a lady like yourself. Tell you what, I’ll give you a good price for it.’

Fen shrugged in the most Gallic way she could muster. ‘Could you tell me who it’s by?’

‘Ooof, now you’re asking.’ The salesman unhooked the painting from the back of his kiosk and held it up to the daylight. ‘Not much of a signature there, it might be hidden behind this backing paper, shame to unseal it to look. Anyway, it’s about how it makes you feel, isn’t it. Can’t get het up about names and