She sniffed the handkerchief again; it gave off a strong, pungent, almost burnt, odour—much too strong to be attractive to a woman, and yet clearly possessing a quality of rather oriental fascination.
“Hot stuff.”
“It is, and it’s Daphne’s; I remember it unmistakably now. Can we trace it, do you think?”
“We can try. I doubt if it’s Rollinson’s—or any respectable London perfumers. It’s more likely Paris—a small shop behind the Opéra; more likely still, it’s Port Said. But we can try.”
Ryland held out his hand for it.
“No,” said Inez. “This is my job; you’d make a mess of it—men are too bashful to worry shops. You go and talk to Mangane now; he’s got a job for you—I’ve been talking to him.”
Laid on to her new scent, Inez once more set out upon the trail. Returning to Rollinson’s, she found Mr. Rodney-Phillips noticeably less accommodating than upon the occasion of her previous visit. One sniff of the handkerchief was enough for him; he had never sold, nor ever would sell such a low-class perfume; he knew of no establishment (he had no cognizance of “shops”) which might be likely to deal in it; he wished her good morning.
Duhamel Frères were slightly more helpful. They produced no such article themselves, though they believed that there was a certain demand in Paris for similar effects. They were willing to refer the enquiry to their Paris house if Madam would leave the handkerchief with them. After a moment’s thought, Inez borrowed a pair of scissors and snipped a quarter off the unknown Daphne’s five-inch square of absurdity.
“Pompadour” was interested. Madame Pompadour, who ran the business herself, with two good-looking assistants, knew Inez by name, and was intrigued by what she had read of the Inquest on Sir Garth’s death; she was still more intrigued by what Inez, taking one of her quick decisions (which seldom erred on the side of discretion) told her. She did not agree with Mr. Rodney-Phillips that it was a low-grade perfume; on the contrary, it was in its way a work of art, though the taste which demanded it might not be high. She made nothing of the kind herself, but she knew one or two small undertakings which might have produced it. She gave Inez, in the first place, two addresses: “Orient Spices” in North Audley Street and “Mignon” in Pall Mall Place.
Inez took the nearest one first. She found “Mignon” to be a small, dark shop in the celebrated passage which leads from Pall Mall, nearly opposite Marlborough House, into King Street. It was faintly lit by electric candles in peculiar-looking sconces. There was a heavy reek of exotic perfume, and a very pretty but too highly coloured houri was in attendance. The girl looked as if she were more accustomed to being cajoled by members of the other sex, but she was not proof against the ingenuous (and ingenious) charm of Inez’s appeal; she proved, in fact, to be, beneath her rather spectacular exterior, a very simple and friendly girl, deriving from no more dashing a locality than Fulham.