guilty conscience but fear of retribution! Well, she won’t be able to run away from me , Eleanor thought, and she nodded to herself grimly.
The widow Saverini, she thought. I am the widow Saverini.
It had been quite incredible, the way she had obtained the Chalfont Park address.
She had arrived in Paris, intent on tracking down Corinne Coreille. Of course Corinne Coreille wasn’t listed in the phone book. Eleanor hadn’t expected her to be, really, but an idea had already formed itself in her mind. Sitting in her overheated room at the overpriced Hotel Constantinople, she reached out for the telephone and called Corinne’s record company, Fabiola, whose number was in the book. Substituting her genteel English accent for a brasher American one – not that it would have mattered either way – she asked to speak to somebody in the publicity department. A young man – he had sounded like a young man, extremely pleasant as well as flustered, clearly inexperienced – answered and yes, he spoke English. (Most French people operating in the excessive and reality-detached world of le showbiz did.) In the most casual manner imaginable Eleanor had introduced herself as Tricia Swindon, an American chat-show hostess, and had asked for Corinne Coreille’s contact number. For good measure, she had been chewing gum. She had made herself sound ingenuous to the point of naivety – wasn’t that how the French imagined Americans to be?
She had explained that it was a matter of great urgency. She needed to speak to Corinne Coreille in person. She had her own TV show in the USA and she wanted to invite Corinne to appear on it. Corinne Coreille had a great following in the USA. Americans still remembered Corinne Coreille’s concerts at Carnegie Hall in 1974 and 1982. People still talked about her duets with Danny Kaye and Dean Martin. Ah – ‘Amore’! She had babbled on.
She had expected to be referred to Corinne’s agent or somebody, and she couldn’t believe her ears when the young man started dictating Corinne’s home phone number to her. Just like that. Eleanor had been flabber-gasted – she had suspected some kind of chicanery, some trick, or indeed a trap . . . Could the police be monitoring her movements? Had she been given the number of the Sûreté perhaps?
After some hesitation, Eleanor had rung the number and almost at once a woman’s voice had answered. A maid of some sort, speaking in a very loud voice and with an accent that wasn’t French . . . Tipsy, by the sound of it . . . Yes, I speak Ee-nglish. Yes, this is Mademoiselle Coreille ’ s residence. You want to speak to Mademoiselle Coreille? Oh, but she is away, madame! Mademoisellle Coreille and Ma ître Maginot, they leave together for the airport. They leave for England. A contact address? Mademoiselle Coreille, she stays at French embassy in London tonight and tomorrow, then she arrives at Chalfont Park on the evening of 3rd April. Chalfont Park, that is correct. Eet eez a big house in England . . . Chalfont Park, Chalfont Parva, Shropshire, England. That is correct. And there was a phone number also, yes .
The phone number followed.
There must be something wrong, surely? It was a trick – must be! Or perhaps not. Oversights did happen. Deliberate misunderstandings, too. Eleanor had suffered at the hands of unreliable – as well as of vengeful – maids, so she knew how it could be. Maids with a grudge were the devil . . . Yes, the maid might have done just the opposite to what she had been instructed.
Who was Maître Maginot? Eleanor’s eyelids flickered – closed. For some reason she felt exhausted. She hadn’t yet managed to recover from the jet lag, and now she was on a train, which had never happened before – she hated trains – but she wouldn’t have had it any other way. She wouldn’t have wanted to be like the sage who said, Re imperfecte mortuus sum . Eleanor frowned, suddenly struck by a thought. I died with my purpose
The widow Saverini, she thought. I am the widow Saverini.
It had been quite incredible, the way she had obtained the Chalfont Park address.
She had arrived in Paris, intent on tracking down Corinne Coreille. Of course Corinne Coreille wasn’t listed in the phone book. Eleanor hadn’t expected her to be, really, but an idea had already formed itself in her mind. Sitting in her overheated room at the overpriced Hotel Constantinople, she reached out for the telephone and called Corinne’s record company, Fabiola, whose number was in the book. Substituting her genteel English accent for a brasher American one – not that it would have mattered either way – she asked to speak to somebody in the publicity department. A young man – he had sounded like a young man, extremely pleasant as well as flustered, clearly inexperienced – answered and yes, he spoke English. (Most French people operating in the excessive and reality-detached world of le showbiz did.) In the most casual manner imaginable Eleanor had introduced herself as Tricia Swindon, an American chat-show hostess, and had asked for Corinne Coreille’s contact number. For good measure, she had been chewing gum. She had made herself sound ingenuous to the point of naivety – wasn’t that how the French imagined Americans to be?
She had explained that it was a matter of great urgency. She needed to speak to Corinne Coreille in person. She had her own TV show in the USA and she wanted to invite Corinne to appear on it. Corinne Coreille had a great following in the USA. Americans still remembered Corinne Coreille’s concerts at Carnegie Hall in 1974 and 1982. People still talked about her duets with Danny Kaye and Dean Martin. Ah – ‘Amore’! She had babbled on.
She had expected to be referred to Corinne’s agent or somebody, and she couldn’t believe her ears when the young man started dictating Corinne’s home phone number to her. Just like that. Eleanor had been flabber-gasted – she had suspected some kind of chicanery, some trick, or indeed a trap . . . Could the police be monitoring her movements? Had she been given the number of the Sûreté perhaps?
After some hesitation, Eleanor had rung the number and almost at once a woman’s voice had answered. A maid of some sort, speaking in a very loud voice and with an accent that wasn’t French . . . Tipsy, by the sound of it . . . Yes, I speak Ee-nglish. Yes, this is Mademoiselle Coreille ’ s residence. You want to speak to Mademoiselle Coreille? Oh, but she is away, madame! Mademoisellle Coreille and Ma ître Maginot, they leave together for the airport. They leave for England. A contact address? Mademoiselle Coreille, she stays at French embassy in London tonight and tomorrow, then she arrives at Chalfont Park on the evening of 3rd April. Chalfont Park, that is correct. Eet eez a big house in England . . . Chalfont Park, Chalfont Parva, Shropshire, England. That is correct. And there was a phone number also, yes .
The phone number followed.
There must be something wrong, surely? It was a trick – must be! Or perhaps not. Oversights did happen. Deliberate misunderstandings, too. Eleanor had suffered at the hands of unreliable – as well as of vengeful – maids, so she knew how it could be. Maids with a grudge were the devil . . . Yes, the maid might have done just the opposite to what she had been instructed.
Who was Maître Maginot? Eleanor’s eyelids flickered – closed. For some reason she felt exhausted. She hadn’t yet managed to recover from the jet lag, and now she was on a train, which had never happened before – she hated trains – but she wouldn’t have had it any other way. She wouldn’t have wanted to be like the sage who said, Re imperfecte mortuus sum . Eleanor frowned, suddenly struck by a thought. I died with my purpose
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