The Gown(85)

“What is it?” Miriam asked, thoroughly rattled.

“I know who did it,” Ann muttered, her voice thick with suppressed tears. “Jeremy.”

“Why? Why would he do such a thing?”

“He said information about the gown would be worth a king’s ransom in the right hands. He was so angry. He’d thought a few evenings out would soften me up, and I’d tell him everything he wanted to know, or I’d let something slip. But I never said a thing, and he . . .”

“What did he do?”

Ann covered her face with her hands. “Nothing. Nothing.”

“When did he take the drawing?” Miriam pressed. “Could it have been the night you last saw him?”

“It must have been. I was . . . I was in the other room. For a while. And he was alone with my bag, and I think he looked through it then. I don’t know why, though, because he knew I don’t have any money. I don’t have anything worth taking.”

“Had he known about your sketchbook?”

Ann shook her head, wiped at her eyes. “No. At least I don’t think he did. Oh, Miriam. He must have thought he’d won the pools. A sketchbook full of designs, and a grand wedding dress right at the end. With a label just in case it wasn’t clear. ‘Fit for a princess.’ I’m going to be sick.”

“Put your head between your knees,” Miriam directed her. “Yes. Breathe deeply. You are not going to be sick, and you did not do anything wrong. It is not the correct gown, to begin with. If anything, this will make things better for all of us. The journalists will think they have uncovered the secret. They will leave us all alone.”

“I have to tell Miss Duley and Mr. Hartnell. I have to tell them what happened.”

Did Ann not possess a single gram of self-preservation? To admit the truth of it, blameless though she was, would be madness. But that was an argument for another day.

“Wait until we know more. After work, I shall go to see Walter. He will be able to help. I am certain he will help.”

“What can he do?” Ann whispered wretchedly.

“To begin with, he can confirm that this Jeremy, cet espèce de con, is the thief. Now, tell me everything you remember about him.”

THERE WASN’T TIME, in what was left of the day, for Miriam to run out and find a telephone box and ring Walter at his office. He worked late most evenings, though, and she did have the telephone number for his flat. One way or another she would find him.

He’d taken her to his office once before, so she knew the way—a good thing, too, since the door to the Picture Weekly premises was tucked away on a side street.

The receptionist remembered Miriam from her previous visit. “Miss Dassin. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Is he in?” She would apologize later for her abrupt manner.

“He is—no need to wait. Just go along down the hall. If you don’t find him in his office, come back and I’ll help you.”

He was at his desk, hunched low over a sheaf of typewritten pages, and even from the doorway she could see how he’d marked them up with slashes and notations in red pencil.

“Walter,” she said, and he looked up, startled from his thoughts.

“Miriam,” he said, smiling. And then, “Something is wrong.”

“Yes. I am sorry to bother you here, but I need your help.”

He came round his desk, shut the door, and cleared a mountain of books from two battered chairs. “Sit down, next to me here, and tell me what is the matter.”

“I know you had nothing to do with it. I must say this at the start. I want you to know this, and that I have not come to accuse you of anything.”

“The gown,” he said. “On the front page of The Examiner.”

“Yes,” she acknowledged. “Although it is not the real gown. It is not even close.”

“So why the concern?”

“The drawing was stolen from Ann. Her handwriting is on it.”

“Bloody hell.”

“She believes it was taken by a man she was seeing. They had dinner about a month ago and at one point he was alone with her bag for some time. He cut the drawing from her sketchbook then.”

“Does she have any proof?”

Miriam shook her head. “None at all.”

“Could one of your colleagues at—”

“No. It would have been easier to make their own drawing. And they—we—are all loyal to Monsieur Hartnell. None of us would do such a thing.”

“Of course. What does he look like? The thief? Have you ever met him?”

“Only the once. It was the same night you and I met. He came up to Ann at the Astoria and asked her to dance. He was very handsome. Tall and fair and beautifully dressed.”

Kaz pulled a notebook from his coat pocket and, balancing it on his knee, began to take notes. “His name?”

“Jeremy Thickett-Milne.”

“Age?”

“I think about thirty? Ann was not certain.”

“Anything else?”

“She told me he was an officer in the war. A guard of some kind?”

“With a Guards regiment? Yes? Any idea which one? No matter. And did Ann say what he does for a living? Assuming that he works, of course.”