“But,” Ophelia said, “surely a murder—”
“L’Opéra de Paris, as you are doubtless aware, is an institution that must maintain a certain degree of, shall we say, discretion. The newspapermen would feast like carrion eaters if Sybille’s death were linked to us. We cannot pack the seats with the dregs of a public that wishes to associate itself with sordid crimes when we count, particularly due to the current International Exhibition, great scientists, diplomats, important novelists, duchesses, even a prince of Persia, among our audience.”
What a windbag.
“I beg your pardon,” Penrose said, “but do you have any idea who killed the girl?”
Grant turned away and rifled through the stack of sheet music on the piano. “No.”
“Have you ever happened to meet the Marquise de la Roque-Fabliau?” Ophelia asked, just in case.
“I cannot say that I have.”
“She was—is—American, too. And she used to be on the stage.”
Grant’s nostrils pinched.
“Where did Sybille Pinet live?” Ophelia asked.
“I’ve no idea. Now”—Grant looked at his pocket watch—“I really must . . .”
“Of course,” Penrose said.
“But—” Ophelia said.
Penrose drew her away. “Thank you, Mr. Grant,” he said over his shoulder.
“What a slinky dog!” Ophelia whispered, once she and Penrose were in the corridor. “Not breathing a word to the police?”
“He was immediately forthcoming to us about the girl’s name.”
“Well, certainly. Because anyone else in this building could tell us the very same thing.”
“True. Should we attempt to learn where Miss Pinet lived? I believe I noticed some sort of clerical office downstairs.”
*
A cluttered room with wooden cabinets and shelves led off the downstairs corridor. Its frosted glass door was ajar. Inside, a sparrow-shouldered woman with faded blond hair and sagging, powdered cheeks sat at a desk. She wore a plain gown and, surprisingly, carmine paint on her lips.
Theater folk, Gabriel believed the term was. He glanced at Miss Flax in her preposterous disguise.
“Go ahead,” Miss Flax said to him softly. “Ask her about Sybille.”
“Excuse me, madame,” Gabriel said to the clerical lady in French. “Did you by chance know Sybille Pinet, a young dancer in this company?”
“I keep the books. I know everyone. And I know, too”—the lady’s eyes suddenly filled with tears—“of Sybille’s death. Are you her uncle?”
“No. We are both her friends.” Gabriel paused. “I beg your pardon, but why did you not suppose I am Mademoiselle Pinet’s father?”
“You are too young, for one thing. And she said her father died five years ago.”
“She knew Sybille,” Miss Flax said in an excited whisper.
“Yes,” Gabriel said. “And Miss Pinet’s father died five years ago—or so she said.”
“Ask her why the police haven’t figured out who Sybille was, why nobody said anything to the police.”
Gabriel translated.
“Sybille was a quiet girl,” the lady said.
“But surely everyone knew her, still, and her picture was in half the newspapers in Europe, and surely every newspaper in Paris,” Gabriel said.
The lady hesitated. “We, well, we decided to keep the connection between her death and the opera ballet . . . concealed.”
“What’s she saying?” Miss Flax whispered, impatient now.
“Who decided to conceal it?” Gabriel asked the clerical lady in French.
Miss Flax’s umbrella poked Gabriel in the ribs. He winced.
The clerical lady glanced out into the corridor. She lowered her voice. “Monsieur Grant. The dancing master. He made an announcement to the company, and all the musicians and stage hands, too, that we should avoid speaking with the police.”