Folly Du Jour (24 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

‘To kill him. At the very least, to participate in his killing.’

She swallowed but remained silent, still staring through the windows.

‘Sir Stanley Somerton was never the target, was he? His death has brought freedom, much relief and even unholy joy to a good number of people but it was never intended, was it? No one put cash in an envelope and asked for
him
to die? Am I getting this right, Alice?’

She nodded her head. ‘As usual.’

‘Do you want to know how I guessed?’

‘No. Not particularly. I assume you to be omniscient.’

‘Well, I’ll tell you anyway. Because I shall enjoy the satisfaction of making you and your filthy organization aware that you’ve been tripped up by no more than a couple of bystanders, neither of them connected in any way to the murder that went wrong but both sharp-eyed, observing accurately and passing on their observations to those who could make sense of them.’

Alice appeared not to be listening. ‘Where’s your friend? God! Now where’s he off to? Do we have to wait for him?’

‘The star of the show, Miss Josephine Baker,’ Joe pushed on, ‘was kind enough to grant us an interview. She’s a responsive girl who feeds off her audience, is aware of them and their moods. She remembers that evening particularly because the routine was broken. Lindbergh flew in and she took it upon herself, being from St Louis, to invite the audience to celebrate with her. She was aware of you, Alice, and your young employee in Somerton’s box. She was aware enough of the two men to tell me the boxes were a mirror image of each other. Two elderly gents, two blonde young women with them. She didn’t even know which man had died. Left or right, they were much the same to her. It made no difference to the star but it was life or death for one of those men. And then it struck me. For me, the kaleidoscope suddenly shifted and settled into a different pattern when she said that.

‘And, taken with the strange behaviour of Somerton, the behaviour reported both by Sir George and by a treacherous school friend of his who happened to be in the audience, it all began to pull together. They said the same thing. George, compassionate man that he is, attempted in the only way open to him to ensure – not the virtue – but the well-being of your little tart across the way. Before the show started and you showed up, he got to his feet and in soldier’s hand language told Somerton to back off. “Or else!” he added. Accompanying his threat by a very familiar gesture. This!’

Joe performed the slow dragging of the index finger across the throat.

‘George was relieved to see his old enemy signal: “Message received and understood.” He was puzzled, though not disturbed, by the man’s further reaction. He fell about laughing. The witness in the stalls, Wilberforce Jennings, told us that Somerton “damn near slapped his thigh, he thought it so funny . . .”

‘And it was funny. In the circumstances. Very. Ironic might be a more accurate word as no one but Somerton would have been genuinely amused by the gesture. Because George was the one who was supposed to die and in exactly the way he’d mimed – by the slicing of a dagger across his throat. And the man who supplied the dagger, chose the killing place and the time, and paid for the assassination show was Somerton
himself.
George’s prophetic gesture added to the gaiety! The cherry in the cocktail!’

Joe didn’t care that she was barely listening to him. His outrage pushed him to try to make an impression, to make her admit an understanding. Regret and shame were out of the question, he supposed.

‘The vile Somerton discovered that Jardine, the man who’d disgraced him and ruined his life – as
he
saw it – was to be in Paris at the same time as himself. He wanted the satisfaction of watching while his old enemy was filleted in front of his eyes. But a solitary viewing is not an entirely satisfactory experience for a man like Somerton. He wanted to share it. He arranged to be seen, flaunting female company of the choicest kind, knowing that this would annoy Sir George. And he intended that his companion should join him in witnessing a real-life bit of theatre.’

‘You know that’s not what happened, Joe.’

‘No. And I’m wondering what went wrong – or should I say right? It seems to me that someone threw a sabot into the works and put all the cogs out of mesh. Are you going to tell me?’

‘Me! It was me! You know that!
He
didn’t tell me, for once, the name of the target as he usually does. Sometimes he allows me a veto when he’s getting his schemes together. He trusts my judgement. But in this case, he must have been offered a great deal of money and he didn’t care to hear my objections.’ Alice paused and bit her lip, still working through her reasoning. Not quite happy with her thoughts, Joe guessed. ‘He might have expected me to balk at killing off someone I knew from India. And he was right. I would never have agreed to harming George. He confided in Cassandre – that’s the girl’s name – and set up the whole theatre episode with her. The assassin had been told to kill the Englishman in Box A, the one sitting alone. The client himself would have one of our girls with him, a protective marker, so there was no chance he would get it wrong.

‘Cassandre consulted me about the outfit she should wear that evening and I discussed it with her. I was concerned that I’d been sidelined in this – suspected Cassandre herself of making a try for my own position. No such thing – the girl was just as much in the dark as I was. I got the whole thing out of her. It wasn’t difficult, she assumed I knew. I was horrified. I knew nothing of this Somerton but I did know I wasn’t going to let Sir George die. I thought by arranging for the other man to be killed in his place, I could put it down to a ghastly mistake on the part of the knifeman. And there’d be no client left behind to complain that he hadn’t had his show, after all! No consequences!

‘At the appointed time – the killing was fixed for the moment when the applause for the finale rang out – I left and went down the stairs. I met our man coming up and berated him. “Idiot! The bloke you want is over the other side! B, not A. Don’t you listen? Or don’t you know your alphabet? I’m with this chap, can’t you see? The other, the dark one, is the one sitting by himself. Go quickly!”

‘Cassandre had got away by then, leaving the door ajar, and the fiend got in and did the business. So long as he had someone to carve up, he wouldn’t give a damn. If someone had made a mistake it wasn’t his fault. He would put it down to a management mix-up. He isn’t paid to think. But stupid Sir George! Why the hell did he have to go over and foul everything up?’

‘Because he’s got what you’ve never had, Alice – a kind heart and a conscience. But . . . here comes Bonnefoye at last. Just time to say – thank you!’ He scrabbled around for her hand and lifted it, cold and trembling, to his lips. ‘For those dim glimmerings of human kindness, I thank you.’

‘Dim glimmerings? Fool! I saved his life! And now see where it’s got me, my human kindness! Sharing a taxi with two rozzers and on the way to prison.’

‘You took your time,’ Alice accused Bonnefoye. ‘Can we go now?’

‘Fun’s nearly over,’ he reported, settling back in again and easing out into the traffic. ‘Didn’t entirely go to plan. A problem. Apart from the corpse – four armed security, you said? We’ve got three of them. Two dead, two injured, trying to shoot their way out. They loaded the lot into the police ambulance and headed off for the Quai. At the first halt, corner of the boulevard, one of the wounded leapt from his pallet, bashed the attendant on the head and jumped out into the traffic. He’s covered in blood – his or someone else’s. We should be able to pick him up with no trouble.’

Alice groaned. ‘You’re saying you’ve left one of the wolves on the loose? He’ll go straight to . . .’ She teetered on the edge of a name.

Finally Joe had thought she was about to give him what he wanted but she caught herself in time. Losing patience, he said: ‘To whom, Alice? Who
is
this bogeyman you’re so frightened of? Who’s out there? How many of them?’

‘Not many. He likes to keep it small. Very small now, but there are always men available to swell the ranks. There’s the one you’ve allowed to escape, the knifeman, and the boss. But they’ve got a network that runs all through Paris. And beyond. They’ll track us down wherever we go . . . Where
are
we going?’

‘Yes – where
are
we going?’ Bonnefoye repeated. ‘I’m just the driver, madame. Better check with the gentleman.’

‘Follow that ambulance!’ said Joe, suddenly coming to a decision. ‘I wonder if you knew . . . in times of danger, the Parisii tribe who settled here – before the Romans arrived and spoiled things for them – would make for the central island and pull up the drawbridge, so to speak. We’ll do the same. Ile de la Cité, please, driver.’

‘Oh, Lord! Not Fourier, Joe! Not sure I’m quite prepared for that yet!’

‘I’m certainly not! No, I have in mind a different location. In the law enforcement buildings, but not involving a trip up Staircase A. A quiet spot . . . none quieter. We’re off to the morgue!’

Moulin was already gowned, gloved and masked, standing ready. He was accompanied by three young assistants, similarly clad, sorting through trays of instruments. At their approach, he removed his surgical mask and gave them a puzzled smile of welcome. ‘I was just on my way out for the evening,’ he grumbled. ‘Under this,’ he indicated his white starched gown, ‘I’m dressed for the opera. We were alerted by telephone. Rush job on. Someone warned us to expect incoming dead.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Bonnefoye. ‘That was me. Sorry to foul up your evening, doctor. Gangland fracas in the boulevard du Montparnasse. They’ll be a few more minutes yet. They were told to drop the wounded off at the hospital before coming on here. When you check your laundry list, you’ll find you have three bodies, unless another succumbed en route. There’s one commander and two soldiers. Gun shots, all three.’

‘Ah. Anything to do with you?’

‘It’s all right, doctor. The commander, a person with the proportions of a small whale, died first with not a scrap of police-issue hardware in him. Luger bullets from the house gun. That’s what started it all. The other two . . . were reckless enough to fire on the officers sent to arrest them.’

‘I say, excuse me, but is this an entirely suitable conversation for a lady’s ears?’ They heard the slight reprimand in his voice as Moulin turned a concerned face to Alice. She had been standing listening, not, apparently, looking for a formal introduction. ‘I’m sorry, mademoiselle? Madame?’ He broke off with a bemused and reproving glance at Joe.

‘Don’t worry, Moulin. The lady’s seen and heard and, indeed, perpetrated much worse. May I introduce you to a genuine example of
Latrodectus mactans
? We’re here seeking sanctuary. Her life may be in danger – from the villains who are responsible for all this mayhem. I don’t think they’ll be looking for her in the morgue. Though that is where they’d
like
to see her. She has certain confidences of an intimate nature she’s bursting to make, confidences including the identity of the gentleman we have been calling Set.’

‘Indeed?
Set
? I wondered if he’d bob to the surface again!’

‘The interview is to be an informal one, for the moment. Moulin, I wondered if we might impose on you for an hour? May we borrow your room?’

After a flash of astonishment, the doctor did not hesitate. ‘Certainly. You remember the way? Coffee’s on the stove. Help yourselves. Oh, and before you go off, Bonnefoye, Sandilands – a word with you, please. Something’s come up about Somerton . . . Ah! Here’s our delivery!’

They settled Alice in the armchair furthest from the door and positioned themselves in front of her, Joe to her right, Bonnefoye perching on the footstool to her left. She smiled slightly, watching their manoeuvres. ‘What a simply ghastly room!’ she said, staring around her with a particular look of distaste for the tacked-up theatre posters. ‘Don’t you think? Looks like Quasimodo’s idea of a snuggery. Dr Moulin’s? How can he bear it?’ She removed the antimacassar from her chair between delicate fingers and dropped it to the floor.

‘He doesn’t like it any more than you do but people will keep sending him corpses to be dealt with,’ said Joe, angrily. ‘This is his attempt at a retreat from your handiwork. Six bodies you’ve fed him over the last three days . . . how can
you
bear it? The alternative is Fourier’s office. Shall we take you there? It’s not far. No lace frou-frous there, no common thespian mementoes to curl your toes and shrivel your sensibilities. Spartan, you’d say. Entirely functional decor. But what you
wouldn’t
like is the spot marked in the centre of the room where he will make you stand.’

Alice shrugged her shoulders, unimpressed.

‘And stand . . . and stand . . . Have you any idea how much stress that puts on the body after a few hours? George is still suffering. So, be thankful you’re sitting in an overstuffed armchair being served with coffee, talking to two understanding chaps making notes.’

‘I’ll have mine black with one lump of sugar, please, Inspector,’ she said, capitulating. ‘And you can put your thumbscrews away. I’m going to talk to you. Look on this as a practice run. You must advise me regarding the contents of my official statement. If, that is, you are still requiring me to make one when I’ve got to the end of what I have to say. You may be begging me to tear it all up by the time I reach that point. And hustling me aboard the next transatlantic liner with my head in a bag.’

Relishing their sudden wariness, she added: ‘No, gentlemen – you won’t be pleased.’

Chapter Twenty-Four

‘The Zouave, I’ll start with him,’ she said, accepting a china mug of coffee.

‘The knifeman as you call him, though he’s more versatile than the name suggests. He was in the same regiment as the dear departed Flavius. Yes, I think you’ve detected that there’s a military thread running through all this. I met him nearly five years ago when I arrived here from India. Alone and friendless and trying to establish myself in a hostile city . . .’

She caught Joe’s eye and went on hurriedly: ‘The man tried to rob me! There in the boulevard, in broad daylight. A scarecrow! A heap of rags and bones, he suddenly appeared in front of me with his hand held behind him, like this . . .’

She got to her feet and, with a frisson, Joe recognized the Apache gesture.

‘He put his other hand out and demanded that I give him money. He wasn’t thinking clearly or he’d just have snatched my whole bag and run. He seemed on the point of collapse . . . wobbling rather. I realized he was incapable of running anywhere. The man was at death’s door. Desperate. I opened my bag as though to look for money and took out the gun I always keep by me. You still have it in your pocket, Commander. He wasn’t worth a bullet, I thought. Certainly not worth the time it would take making statements, having my pistol confiscated and all that rigmarole, so I hesitated. And then he did something rather extraordinary. He brought his knife hand forward and showed me it was empty. Too poor even to possess a knife. And then he smiled, his chin went up and he saluted. I could hardly make out what he was saying at first but he repeated it. “
Vive la France!
”

‘He thought he really was living his last moment. “Don’t be so silly,” I told him. “When did you last eat?” I took him to a pancake stall. He wolfed down about six. I made him walk ahead of me to a park bench and sat him down at the opposite end. Perfectly safe – I had my gun in my pocket, covering him the whole time. He told me his story. Perfectly ghastly! He’d drifted back from the war where he’d been badly wounded and was searching for his mother in Paris. He hadn’t seen her for eight years. He’d been reported missing, presumed dead, and she’d moved on. He was destitute. Dying of neglect. A common story. They sweep up a dozen like him from under the bridges every morning. But there was something about this one . . . the tilt of his chin, the glare in his eyes. It was like finding a rusty sword by the wayside. If I polished it up, sharpened it, I would have a weapon worth owning.’

‘So you bought yourself a Zouave, Alice? For an outlay of six pancakes? Were you aware of the reputation of these men? I’d be more comfortable in the close proximity of a mad bull terrier with a stick of ginger up its backside!’

‘I had a use for his skills. I know they are fierce, implacable, terrifying fighters and none more effective with a knife. And there was someone in my world at that time that I needed to terrify. I gave him food, drink, money and a purpose in life. I asked him to undertake a small task for me in return. He was happy to repay my kindness. Loyalty is another of their virtues, you know. And he has never been asked to do something he has not been delighted to do. Clean work compared with what his wartime commanders expected of him. He re-established himself and in time introduced some old army acquaintances. They became the core of my organization.’

‘
Your
organization?’ asked Joe.

‘Yes. Initially it was mine. I bought the premises in the boulevard du Montparnasse. Girls need protection, you know that. And I needed to show a tough face to the world to make it understood that my affairs were not to be interfered with. There was a power-shift going on at that time. Corsicans killing each other, North Africans moving in . . . an unsettled and dangerous time for one in my business.’

‘Alice, couldn’t you have set yourself up in a tea shop and bought a pair of poodles?’ Joe burst out.

Alice and Bonnefoye both turned a pitying glance on him.

‘A cup of tea brings in one franc,’ said Bonnefoye. ‘A girl, between a hundred and a thousand. A dirty business but a calculatedly short one, I’d guess. Five years . . . I’d say you were pretty well poised to make off with your ill-gotten gains?’ he guessed.

‘I am,’ she said with a confident smile.

‘So – tell us about the moment when
your
organization became
his.
’

‘Ah! A sad story! And one you will have heard many times before. I became friendly with one of my clients. Over-friendly. I fancied myself in love with him. He reminded me very much of someone I had been fond of in my past and I allowed him to get too close to me. He also was recently arrived in the city, finding his feet, totally without female companionship. Someone introduced him to the establishment. We were a comfort and a support to each other.’

Joe was remembering just such a confession in a moonlit garden in Simla when she’d talked of a man she’d loved, and he wondered.

‘I was rash. I confided in him. But why not? He gave me good advice and he brought me more clients – he’s a well-connected man. I told him one day, for his amusement, of a fantasy shared with one of my girls . . . Thaïs, it was . . . A regular customer of hers had whispered in her ear. They do. And my girls are required as part of their job to pass on their confidences.’

‘God! I’d like to get a look at your little black book, madame,’ Bonnefoye chortled.

‘Clients assume – perhaps you will know the reason for this, Inspector – that the head on the adjoining pillow may always be disregarded. The woman, by nature of her employment, must be empty-headed, deaf or have a short memory. None of that is true.

‘Thaïs told me that her client, a regular visitor and an agreeable young man, was suffering at the hands of his old uncle. Known for years to be his uncle’s heir, he had been played with, tormented beyond reason by the old man on whom he was financially dependent. Finally the chap had informed his nephew that he was to be cut out of the will, that he (a keen theatre-goer) was leaving the entire fortune to the Garrick Club in London, to be distributed to indigent old actors. Our client spent some time outlining to Thaïs exactly what he wanted to see done to his uncle by way of retribution. His fantasy was amusing. He saw his uncle centre stage at the Garrick Theatre, spotlit of course, knife in his heart and an orifice unmentionable in mixed company stuffed with banknotes.’

‘Oh, good Lord!’ said Joe. ‘November 1923?’

Alice smiled. ‘I told my friend jokingly about this and to my surprise he didn’t laugh. He was intrigued. He gave way to a fantasy of his own. “What a cracking notion! Well, why not? Tell Thaïs to whisper in the boy’s ear that all his dreams can come true! Overnight he will become a very rich and very grateful client, will he not? Let’s put a proposal to him. We undertake to set the stage and provide the body for a fee to be agreed. How much?”

‘Thinking he was playing a game, I suggested a sum.

‘“Ridiculous! Triple that. The overheads will be tremendous. People to pay off . . . Thaïs must be rewarded . . . and Vévé.”’

‘Vévé?’

‘Vincent Viviani, my Zouave. In the end, my friend went to London with him to smooth his path.’

‘Obviously a successful outing. I remember the case. No one was ever arrested. Yes, a smooth beginning. You were inspired to continue?’

‘Yes. Suddenly he was talking about what “we” would do and I realized I’d lost control. There was nothing I could do about it – I’ve told you, he is well connected and powerful.’

‘And you made a profit from these excursions into Hades?’

‘Oh yes. But it was more than that. He enjoyed what he was doing. A game, you know.’

‘You must have exercised a measure of control over him? In the selection of victims, Alice?’

For a moment she was puzzled, trying to guess his meaning.

‘You appear, like the black widow spider, only to kill the males of the species. I have yet to hear – apart from the unfortunate Mademoiselle Raissac who merited punishment as an informer – of a female victim.’

Alice breathed out – with relief? ‘Of course! You must have noticed our clients are men? They have aggressive fantasies about other men in their lives. Men blocking their advancement, men deserving an act of revenge on the battlefield or in the boudoir, questions of inheritance. Sometimes a vengeful fantasy will be triggered by a hurt done to a female in his circle: the father who requests that his impressionable daughter’s young man, whom he has discovered to be a penniless male vamp, be thrown from the Eiffel Tower . . .’

‘You don’t jib at academics, Alice?’ Joe asked, interested in her methods. ‘I’m thinking of a case in 1923 – must have been towards the very start of your activities. A professor who ended up inspecting, rather more closely than he would have liked, the inside of a mummy case. In the Louvre? In front of a delighted audience of fellow academics? No?’

‘No. Not one of ours. I’m sure if we’d been asked . . . he couldn’t have resisted.’

Joe was tiring of her games. ‘Bonnefoye, Alice here confessed to me while we were alone in the back of the taxi that she went to the theatre that night to save the life of Sir George who was – as we suspected – the real target.’ He filled in the details, which came as no surprise to the Frenchman.

‘I’m sure Sir George will be most relieved to hear that he survived!’ He grinned. ‘And doubtless pleased to hear that Miss Alice did what she could to divert the knife from his throat on to a more deserving one. Can’t wait to tell him! But, Joe, there is one detail in this nasty piece of entrapment that puzzles me. The tickets and the note that drew him in – I’d like to hear her account for that.’

‘You’d shudder if you knew how much they cost, those tickets! But Somerton was determined to have his fun – you might almost say, desperate – and offered to pay well over the odds for a good performance.’

‘And the note? The note that lured George to the theatre? How did you know about his relationship with his cousin at the Embassy? Did he speak of it in Simla?’

A trap.

She looked puzzled. ‘Why no. I believe I must have left India before ever his cousin took up a post here . . . Not certain. He never mentioned a cousin at any rate.’

Then she looked at him and smiled. And Joe felt the furry feet of the spider easing their way up his spine. Selecting a soft place for her fangs.

‘My boss, as you call him, wrote the note himself.’

‘Taking a reasonable shot at the handwriting, it would appear?’

‘Why would it not be an entirely reasonable shot? Not necessary to fake one’s own handwriting, Commander!’