Vichy. How fitting, Billie thought. Vichy France, or the Régime de Vichy, had been an authoritarian administration of infamous Nazi collaborators and enablers.
“I think his is the auction house where Hessmann was selling some of his more valuable wares. Seems a nice business.” Billie’s voice was cutting.
“You wouldn’t know anything about what happened to Boucher, would you? He is... implicated in the activities recorded in Hessmann’s notebook.”
“What an unpleasant person,” Billie said, as if this was news to her. “I can’t enlighten you about his passing, though I will say that the fire was sudden and quite fierce. It’s a miracle any of us managed to get out.”
“Death by misadventure, then?” the inspector suggested. “Another unfortunate accident?”
“Fires can be terribly lethal.”
“And roads.”
“Indeed,” she said, and caught his eye, daring him to accuse her.
Cooper watched her carefully. Her expression was steady. He said nothing.
“Thanks for keeping me informed about Hessmann,” Billie finally said, knowing full well that he didn’t have to, and neatly changing the subject. She’d be damned if Shyla or those exploited girls would see any negative repercussions after what had happened. Death was far too good for the likes of Boucher. “And thanks for the cigarette.”
“You’ll do the same, if you uncover anything?” Cooper asked. “I mean, you’ll keep me informed?”
“You know I will, Hank,” Billie said, though she was still seething inside. “I told you in your office that we can be of better use to each other if we share information. I meant it.”
They shook hands, much as they had up in the mountains. A formal gesture, perhaps overly formal considering the events of the past week. He’d held her, as wet, trembling, and exhausted, she’d surveyed the ruins of the Upper Colo homestead. She’d felt a touch vulnerable then. She didn’t now. Rage strengthened her anew. When they withdrew their palms they exchanged a look of unspoken understanding. It lasted just a few seconds but felt like longer, the air around them electric with something ineffable but powerful. She hadn’t felt that since Europe. Yes, Jack Rake, wherever he was, would approve of what had transpired—her part in it, at least. He would approve of her determination not to let it go now, either, not that she needed approval from him, or any man, dead or alive as the case might be. This wasn’t the end of it. Every man in that book deserved the attention of the law. And Hessmann had better not get far. She’d go to the papers if she had to. Everyone would know that face.
“I have to get back,” Cooper said. The dark circles under his eyes spoke of sleepless nights, and he was not likely to see a day off soon. “Sorry to have broken up your party,” he added, and she noticed that Sam, Ella, and Alma were standing, and a young woman was next to Sam now, pulling at his hand. Ah, this would be Eunice. Billie had been so engrossed in her conversation with Cooper that she hadn’t seen her come in. The celebrations, however brief, were indeed over.
“Thank you for telling me,” Billie said once more, and Cooper walked away, pausing on the stairs to incline his head to her. She returned the gesture, and in moments he had slipped out the door onto Rawson Place, the din of the traffic outside filling the space and then receding as the door shut behind him.
“Ms. Walker, this is Eunice.” Sam’s voice pulled her back to the moment. He was standing with a fair-haired woman of about twenty. She had a chocolate-box prettiness and a tightly closed mouth.
“Pleasure to finally meet you,” Billie said to her, and Eunice nodded awkwardly.
“We have to go,” Sam said reluctantly.
“Of course,” Billie said. “See you in the office tomorrow?”
“Naturally,” he replied, and nodded to her.
The pair slipped away and Billie turned to Ella and Alma.
“A lift home?” Alma suggested, and Billie shook her head.
“Thanks, but no. I think I’ll head back upstairs for an hour or two. The agency won’t run itself.” The truth was, there was no relaxing for her now. If she went home to her empty flat, she might go insane. She needed to sit at her father’s desk and think. And perhaps break her rule about drinking alone.
Thirty-three
Animated by anger, Billie Walkerstrode through the doors of Daking House. Her latest case was closed. The Browns had their boy back, and she hoped they would soon get Margarethe’s necklace back, too. The mystery was solved. She had new clients lining up for the first time. She’d felt that a sense of doing something that mattered wasn’t strictly a thing of the past, wasn’t confined to her career as a wartime reporter. She had been truly optimistic for the first time in months—that was before she got the news from Detective Inspector Cooper that Franz Hessmann had been released from Richmond Police Station and was now who knew where. There were now enough loose ends to keep her mind occupied for months. She would help in whatever way she could in the hunt for Hessmann and his associates, and was determined to take Moretti down, whatever it took. He must have been working for Hessmann, or perhaps Boucher, as she’d first thought.
Yes, there was work to do.
“John, hold the lift?” Billie called and picked up her pace as she crossed the foyer.
The lift operator smiled in his lopsided way through the grille of the outer door and pulled it back, making his other customers, two men, wait. “Of course, Ms. Walker,” he said fondly.
Billie slid inside, noting that one of the two men was familiar—an older man with spectacles and ink-stained fingers, in a striped suit. One of the accountants. A pleasant enough fellow. He tipped his hat to her. The second was taller and had badly dyed brown hair just visible under a fedora. John Wilson pulled the second door closed and worked the lever, the lift starting up with a shuffling hum.
“Second floor, Mr. Peters,” he announced, and the accountant lumbered out with a smile and a thank-you.
