“Whatever for?” Gabriel discreetly pushed Miss Flax’s umbrella away.
“He said that the murderer had already been identified, that justice would prevail, and that, therefore, there was no need to drag our company’s name through the mire through association with a—a sordid crime. Because Sybille—oh!—I believed her to be a good girl, but why, then, was she in that costly gown that she had no business wearing, out in the night, alone? Shot?”
“Tell me what you’re talking about,” Miss Flax whispered. “This is my investigation, Professor.”
“I haven’t forgotten, Miss Flax, and neither have my ribs.” Gabriel told her what the lady had said.
“Everyone in the company agreed to silence?” Ophelia said. “That’s peculiar.”
Gabriel said as much in French to the clerical lady.
“Yes, well, Monsieur Grant’s word carries much weight. He is not the impresario, but he is the head choreographer as well as the dancing master. He is much feared. He alone casts the roles and hires and dismisses dancers.”
Gabriel passed this on to Miss Flax, who nodded. “Does she have any notion why Sybille might have been in Le Marais that evening?”
Gabriel translated.
“Oh dear me, no,” the lady said. “Although . . . well, we do try to protect the girls, but . . . now and again, one slips through the cracks.” Her eyes were distant. “I wonder . . .”
“She was extraordinarily beautiful,” Gabriel said. “That is sometimes dangerous.”
“She was briefly employed as an artist’s model, I was told, a year or so ago, which will mix a girl up with the wrong sort. And she had no protector. No family. She was a bit mysterious, yet with something quite prim and proper about her. She had grown up in an orphanage of some kind, where she had taken dancing lessons, and she had demonstrated ability. She danced for Monsieur Grant in one of our annual auditions. That was, let me think . . . nearly two years ago.”
Gabriel translated for Miss Flax.
“Ask her where Sybille lived,” Miss Flax said.
Gabriel asked.
“In a boardinghouse in the Quartier Pigalle—”
“Pigalle!” Gabriel said. “Good heavens.”
“Yes, well, that is where many of our girls live. It is fairly close by, and inexpensive.” The lady rose, and found a card in one of the filing cabinets. “Sixteen Rue Frochot.”
*
Outside, the rain had let up. Sunlight bounced off the wet square in front of the opera house. Carriages, delivery wagons, and omnibuses slopped by in the street.
“We ought to go to Sybille’s boardinghouse,” Ophelia said. “Surely someone there will know something about the night she died.”
“Should you perhaps return to H?tel Malbert? Won’t you be missed?”
Ophelia rummaged around in her reticule. “You aren’t going to do that old routine, are you? Nudging me in the direction of propriety?” She pulled out her Baedeker.
“Would it make a difference if I did?”
“No.” Ophelia checked the index and flipped to a map captioned Place Pigalle & Environs. She scoured the map for Rue Frochot. “There. Ought to be an easy walk.”
“It’s well over a mile, surely.”
Ophelia bookmarked the map with a red ribbon. “I used to walk three miles to the schoolhouse every morning as a girl.”
“We’ll hire a cabriolet.”
“I won’t have you paying for things.” Ophelia turned in what she hoped was the direction of Place Pigalle.
She stopped. Once again, the fanciful placard decorated with mice, rats, and lizards caught her eye. She pointed it out to Penrose. “What does that placard say?”
“Good heavens. Cendrillon.”
“Sendry-what?”
He paused. “Cinderella.”
Ophelia’s jaw dropped. She swung on Penrose. “Cinderella? Cinderella? Why, you low-down, deceitful, double-crossing, two-faced scallywag! I knew it. I knew it!”
“I fail to grasp your meaning.”