Folly Du Jour (11 page)

While he looked at his feet in confusion and she smiled in – was it triumph or understanding? – the attention of both was caught by plodding footsteps on the stairs. The concierge’s peremptory voice called out: ‘
La porte!
’ and Francine went to open it. Joe got to his feet, fearing that his interview was about to be cut short, ready to repel the intrusion, but instead he hurried forward to take the tray she was carrying from the old woman’s hands. He carefully balanced the weight of the silver coffee pot, two china mugs, a jug of milk and a plate of Breton biscuits, adding his own thanks to those of Francine: ‘Oh, Tante Geneviève, you shouldn’t have!’

The dragon looked around and, apparently happy with what she saw or didn’t see, cleared the top of the table to make way for the tray, gathering up the dirty cups and wrappers, grunted, and went out.

‘I don’t have much experience of concierges,’ said Joe, ‘but I’d have thought room service of this kind is a bit out of the ordinary? Did I hear you claim that lady as a relative?’

‘I call her “Aunty” and I’ve known her forever, but she’s my godmother. Her husband was wounded in the war. Has never worked since. They scrape a living. My mother would only agree to my continuing to live alone in the wicked city if I was under someone’s wing.’ She smiled and added thoughtfully: ‘And she was quite right. It’s not always convenient to have a mother hen clucking after you, but the advantages are considerable. My rent is fair, not extortionate as it can be for most young girls trying to live by themselves. No spirit stoves allowed in the rooms, of course.’ She looked around at the quantities of fabrics festooning the room. ‘And this would be a fire hazard if I attempted to use one. So – occasionally, she brings me coffee. Inspector Bonnefoye rated one too.’ Francine sniffed the coffee as she poured it out. ‘But not as good as this! Mmm! Moka? And no chicory!’ She looked at him with fresh speculation. ‘The old thing’s brought out her best for the English policeman. Now what on earth did you do to provoke this attention?’

They sipped the coffee appreciatively for a moment or two and then Joe said mildly: ‘So – your attempt to pervert the course of justice by withholding vital information (six months in La Santé if Acid Drop were to find out) was occasioned by a feeling of solidarity for a fellow working girl? No more than that? Am I expected to believe this?’ He left a space in which she was meant to reflect on her predicament and assess his power to carry out his threats, veiled, as they were, by a charming smile and delivered in a pleasantly husky voice. ‘But loyalty is something I can understand. It is my motivation also in pursuing this case,’ he confided. ‘The suspect, Sir George Jardine, is an old friend of mine, a distinguished public servant, a much-decorated soldier and a man of impeccable honour. He is not a man to sink a dagger into the throat of a fellow officer, to hear his death rattle, to soak up his blood.’

Fearing he was raising George’s virtue to an unbelievable height, he paused.

‘Are you telling me such a man never killed before?’ she said, cynically. ‘Come on! A politician and a soldier? To me that combination shrieks power and violence. I saw him – you forget. He is a man capable of killing.’ She surprised him further by looking him in the eye and adding: ‘Like
you.
’

Joe was alarmed by the accuracy of the girl’s insight. ‘He’s a competent man. Such a messy killing is not his
style
at all. Completely implausible. If circumstances ever forced a man like Jardine to contrive the death of a fellow man – and I can’t imagine what they might conceivably be –’ he lied, ‘he would do it from afar . . . He would not do it before an audience of two thousand. And – I can tell you – he would not be discovered floundering about with blood on his own hands.’

‘Exactly! You’re getting there! From afar – you’ve said it! Perhaps the victim was no pushover? A soldier might be expected to fight back? Your elderly friend not too keen to get close enough to sink a blade in him? I wonder how much your Sir George laid out for the distancing? Money can take you anywhere in this city, Inspector. If you know where to go. The right address. A thousand francs will buy you a night of passion you never dreamed of . . . If your desires are of a more sinister nature, the same sum will buy you a death.’

Chapter Ten

‘And if all I hear is correct, both may be obtained at the same establishment,’ she whispered.

‘
Établissement
?’ he queried, apparently not understanding the word, and waited for her explanation. A trick he must use sparingly, he thought. She was clever and would soon realize that, in offering a simplified and expanded version of her comments, she was giving away more than she had intended. He listened carefully to her reply and nodded his understanding.

She made an effort not to look about her and Joe was aware of a lowering of her voice even though they were unobserved. Was this done for effect? He thought he’d better be prepared to reserve judgement on Mademoiselle Raissac.

‘If this is an agreement you’re offering, Inspector,’ she went on, ‘I have to accept, but I want your assurance that it will not be known that this information comes from me. Nor will I involve others. They don’t like loose ends. They cover their tracks and they don’t leave witnesses.’

‘They?’ he questioned lightly. ‘Did you mention a name? Did I miss it?’

‘They have no name but they have a reputation, amongst those who need to know these things, for efficiency and even –’ she shuddered – ‘a certain style.’

‘What are you suggesting?’ He glanced around at the couturier’s silk and satin confections. ‘An element of
design
in their deaths? Bespoke killing? Made-to-measure murder?’

‘Don’t scoff! You have no idea!’

The words burst from her, raw and vehement. What emotion inspired them, he wondered – fear, despair or fury at his wilfully obtuse comments? He had a knack of making people fizz with rage when he chose to use it. Anger frequently knocked down carefully erected defences and left his suspect exposed. But this girl had not yet reached that pitch. Her emotion – whatever it might be – was still surging and gathering. In an anxious effort to impress on him the gravity of her situation, the gestures accompanying her words became intense and urgent.

‘If they found out I’d spoken of this . . . I’d be discovered dead, my mouth sewn up with scarlet thread and a pair of scissors through my heart. Do you understand?’

He affected dismay. ‘Am I to suppose, then, that the – shall we now call it “assassination”? – of Somerton was a
commercial
undertaking? That someone approached the nameless organization you have in mind and ordered up his death?’

‘Yes. The dead man was probably lured there by this blonde girl who at an agreed moment abandoned him to his fate. At the finale, I’d guess, the killer entered and cut his throat, leaving the knife behind. They usually take the weapon away with them. This knife must have been significant, wouldn’t you say? I caught a glimpse of it. They picked it up with a handkerchief from the floor at the man’s feet. It looked foreign to me. And it wasn’t a zarin, which is the most popular knife in use in Paris.’

‘Zarin?’

‘It’s like a stiletto. The street gangs use it. For ripping and stabbing. Like this.’ She held an imaginary weapon in her hand using a backwards grip and demonstrated. Her face was impassive but her breathing was increasingly fast and shallow.

‘I’ve seen just that action somewhere,’ he said vaguely.

‘Well, this weapon was no zarin. It was short . . . fancy carved hilt.’

‘Ivory. Very distinctive. The dagger in this case was from Afghanistan,’ he said calmly. ‘A country in which Somerton had served some years ago, before the war.’ He calculated he was giving nothing away. It would be all over the newspapers tomorrow. And her response would tell him what he needed to know about Mademoiselle Raissac. Would she fall for the stimulus of the exotic blade he was offering and be inspired to spin out her story?

Yes, she would. Her eyes gleamed, her hands fluttered in expressive embroidery of her tale: ‘Well – there you have it, then! You should be looking for someone with a grudge going back to that time. A clear case of vengeance, wouldn’t you say? Someone with enough money and enough hatred, after all these years, to have the man very publicly killed. Payback for something murky in the past? That’s what the scene would have shown if your poor old friend hadn’t stumbled into the box prematurely. And now he’s got himself arrested and it all looks like an exhibition of jealous rage between two old codgers who ought to know better. A fit of rage that got out of hand.’

She considered for a moment and added: ‘They might not like that. An expensively staged act of retribution reduced to a sordid squabble. The customer who paid for his bit of theatre might not be entirely satisfied at the outcome.’

‘Not sure where you’re going with all this.
He
– whoever
he
is . . . Client of
them
perhaps? – can hardly say: “Excuse me – may we see that bit again, from the top?” can he? It’s not a dress rehearsal we’ve been treated to! More of a live – or rather
death –
performance.’

She scowled. ‘Nothing I can say will make you take this seriously. I’ve said enough. I’ve said too much. Who knows what he’s deciding at this moment? What they are planning? You’d better leave now. But before you go – I’ll remind you of our bargain. What was it? Six months in La Santé or spill my guts? Now, the question is, do I trust a policeman? (Am I naïve?) An English one? (Am I barmy?)’ She put her head on one side and considered. ‘No. I’m not stupid. And I’m not taken in by an affected lack of understanding that comes and goes, or by a handsome face and a pair of grey eyes that, with a little guidance, could find my soul. I’m going to take you for an honourable man. I couldn’t serve time in prison. Not even a day. I know what it’s like. The river . . . or the canal . . . would be my way out of that. So, unless you want my death on your conscience, you’ll keep your word.’

It was not the moment to tell her that so far she’d revealed nothing he could use.
He . . . They . . .
Nonsense. But sensing that she was still working her way through to offering something he stayed silent.

‘Look, can I ask you to do something for me before I give you the one bit of information I have that may help you? By coming here you’ve put me in danger. You must do what you can to put things right. No effort on your part involved! Agreed? Good.’

Ten minutes later Joe emerged into the sunshine. He looked around him, a man in an unfamiliar street, getting his bearings. He appeared oblivious of the passers-by though he was noting them through eyes narrowed against the sun: the two men strolling down the middle of the road, the tramp scavenging for cigarette butts in the gutter, the fashionably dressed young hostess on her way to her shift at one of the jazz clubs. Any one of them could be disguising an interest in a man leaving Mademoiselle Raissac’s apartment. Joe loitered on the doorstep as he’d promised Francine he would. She leaned briefly from the window, hitching up the shoulder of her silk gown, and called down to him: ‘Darling – I should have asked – can you make it two hours later next week?’

As a bonus, Joe made a show of adjusting his trousers with a louche smirk. Francine ducked back inside the room, unable to hold back a burst of throaty laughter. He looked at his watch, sighed with satisfaction and made off back to the square, whistling.

Better to compromise her good name rather than her neck, she’d judged. He’d been impressed by Mademoiselle Raissac. Mannequin? Dancer? No. Her modest stature might have deprived the boutiques or the Folies of her talents – but it was the stage of the Comédie Française that was the true loser. She would have graced any one of Molière’s plays. Dorine in
Tartuffe
? Perfect! What a performance the girl had put on for him! Emotion threatening to overflow at every verse end.

Charming girl, but she’d clearly been watching too many overblown dramas – onstage and backstage. Probably spent her spare time at the matinées in the Gaumont cinema, terrifying herself watching the adventures of Fantômas, Emperor of Evil. Joe shuddered as he recalled the image on the posters, known all over the world, but very particularly French in flavour: a mysterious gentleman, elegant in evening dress, inhuman green eyes glowing through his black mask, stalked a city-scape of Paris with giant strides. His left hand, kid-gloved, cupped his chin thoughtfully, as he selected his next victim. His right hand, slightly behind him, held in a backwards grip a blood-smeared dagger. And the grip was the very one Francine had demonstrated with such vigour. He wondered whether her storytelling was a part of her character, her way of enlivening an otherwise hardworking but humdrum life, or whether she was making a special effort to mislead the police.

The young nightclub hostess he’d marked down earlier must have doubled back. He was disconcerted to find her suddenly in front of him, coming towards him. How had she slipped by? He was getting careless. A few more strides and she was face to face with him on the narrow pavement. With an exclamation of apology Joe stepped to the side. But he chose to hop to the unexpected side, away from the road. Put out by his clumsiness, she dodged. They got in each other’s way, setting to the side and back again, partners in a country dance, disguising their impatience with embarrassed smiles. She began to speak to him. ‘I wonder if monsieur is looking for an encounter of a more intimate nature?’ she murmured, and then the familiar, shyly delivered, ‘
Tu viens?
’

Joe relaxed. A street walker after all. All was well. Training made him keep up his pretence of Englishman eminently satisfied by his experiences in Montmartre and he said politely: ‘Awfully sorry, my dear. Couldn’t possibly! I’m afraid you’ve picked just the wrong moment . . . if you understand me? Ha! Ha! Some other time?’ He rolled his eyes in an expression meant to convey both satiety and anticipation of a pleasure deferred and walked on.

Francine’s nervousness must be affecting him. ‘They don’t leave witnesses,’ she’d said, wide-eyed. Once round the corner, Joe’s pace increased. Belatedly catching her anxiety, he broke into a trot. Witness? He was thinking of another witness who’d had a clear view of the murder box. The chief witness, you might say, and one who had yet to make his full testimony. One he’d personally removed from the protection of police custody and left behind asleep in a hotel room. He began to run. Had he abandoned, unguarded, a loose end to be tidied up?