Folly Du Jour (7 page)

‘Where is everyone?’ Joe asked as they began to climb the staircase.

‘It’s early.’ Bonnefoye shrugged. ‘Night shift’s left and the morning crowd won’t get here for another hour.’

They stopped off at the third floor and Joe followed his escort into a green-painted waiting room which seemed to have been furnished by the local junk shop. They settled on two mismatched chairs and Bonnefoye asked for a further report on Joe’s telephone conversation. He listened to Joe’s brief background details on Sir George and smiled.

‘As you say, Sandilands – quite obviously a misunderstanding. I’m sure you’ll be able to clear it up in no time. I don’t expect that I’ll be of much help. I’m very recently arrived here, remember. They don’t know my face yet. But I’ll do whatever I can. And I’ll start by marking your card over the Chief Inspector. If it’s who I think it is, his name is Casimir Fourier and he’s an unpleasant bastard. Sour, forties, unmarried, fought in the war, very ambitious. Said to have clawed his way up from lowly origins. What else can I tell you? No known virtues. Except that he’s reputed to be very efficient. He has an exceptional record for extracting confessions.’

‘Confessions?’

‘You know our system! You can be discovered by a dozen independent witnesses – and half of them nuns – with your hands about a victim’s throat and the state will still demand a confession. The magistrates expect it. It absolves them of any guilt should any contradictory evidence arise after the event. And by “event” I mean execution. Monsieur Guillotin’s daughter still does her duty in the courtyard at La Santé prison. There’s no arguing with
her.
I imagine your friend is busy providing Fourier or his deputy with a
procès-verbal
of the events.’

‘But, taking down a written statement . . . I can’t imagine that would last ten hours, can you?’

Bonnefoye looked uncomfortable. ‘Depends on whether he’s saying what Fourier wants him to say. Perhaps he’s not such a co-operative type, your friend?’

‘Oh, he is. Very much the diplomat. Experienced. Worldly. Knows when to compromise.’ Joe grinned. ‘And he always comes out on top. But he doesn’t suffer fools – or villains – gladly and your Casimir Fourier may find he’s bitten off more than he can chew if he confronts George. And – let’s not forget – he’s not guilty! Hang on to that, Bonnefoye!’

‘Wait here, I’ll go and tap on the Chief Inspector’s door and let him know we’ve arrived.’ He headed off down the corridor towards the inspectors’ offices.

Bonnefoye returned a minute later. Not at ease. ‘Fourier’s got your friend in there. As I thought, they’re working on his statement. And not pleased to be interrupted, I’m afraid.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Told me to go away and not to bring you back before ten o’clock. He’ll see you then.’

Joe could not keep the annoyance out of his voice. ‘Spreading his tail feathers! Showing who’s boss! He doesn’t endear himself!’

‘Tell you what . . . pointless kicking our heels here . . . why don’t we nip out and get some breakfast? The Halles are a short walk away. The blokes normally go there at the end of a night shift. There’s a good little café where you can get onion soup, wonderful strong coffee, croissants, fresh bread . . .’

Joe was already heading for the door.

He reckoned it was not so much the onion soup that fortified him as the dash of brandy that the waiter stirred into it. But whatever it was, he returned with Bonnefoye, fully awake and having got his second wind. They repeated their ascent to the waiting room and stood by the open door. Distantly the bell of Notre Dame sounded ten and, taking a deep breath, Bonnefoye invited him with a gesture to accompany him to the Chief Inspector’s room.

The Frenchman tapped on the door and listened. A peremptory bark was interpreted as a signal to enter. As the door swung open, Joe was taken aback by a wave of used air, over-warm and sooty, thick with rough tobacco and rancid with perspiration. At a desk too large for the room lounged the Chief Inspector in his shirtsleeves, tie pulled loosely aside. His stare was narrow and truculent, dark eyes hooded in a sallow face. Joe was gratified to note the dark stubble on the broad jaw. Fourier looked rather less appetizing than himself or Bonnefoye and was clearly still finishing off his night’s work. Not yet into the new day. He made no effort to greet them, merely watching as they came in to stand in front of him, raising his eyebrows as though to enquire what could possibly be the reason for this interruption to his day.

‘A moment, please,’ he said before they could speak and rang a bell.

A young sergeant entered from the room next door and looked at him enquiringly. ‘Do you want me to take over, sir?’

‘Not just yet. I’m still going strong. Good for a few more hours yet,’ Fourier said, ignoring his guests. ‘Just check the stove, would you? Oh, and get me another cup of coffee.’

The sergeant went smoothly about his duties, pouring out a cup of badly stewed coffee from an enamel pot simmering on the stove and finding a space for it on a tray alongside a green bottle of Perrier water and an empty glass by the Chief Inspector’s hand. No offer of refreshment was made to the men standing in front of him. And as there was no chair in the room but the one on which Fourier sat, stand was all they could do.

All Joe’s attention had been for the silent prisoner in the middle of the room but he forced himself not to react to what he saw and turned back to the Chief Inspector as Bonnefoye performed the introductions. He handed over his warrant card and waited patiently while Fourier read it with exaggerated care, turning it this way and that. ‘If he holds it up to the light, I shall certainly smack him one,’ Joe thought, relieving his tensions with a pleasing fantasy.

‘I see. And you claim to be . . . what am I supposed to assume? . . . a Commander of Scotland Yard?’ The voice was dry and roughened by years of cigarette smoke. Joe glanced at the ashtray stuffed full of yellow butts and wondered if he should advise the use of Craven A. Kind to the throat, apparently.

‘Your deduction is correct,’ Joe replied mildly. ‘I
am
a Commander. You may not be familiar with the hierarchy in the Metropolitan Police? I direct a department of the CID – the equivalent of your Brigade Criminelle – specializing in military, diplomatic and political crime of a nature sensitive to His Majesty’s Government. I report to the Chief Commissioner himself.’ As well as clarity and exactness the statement also carried the underlying message that Commander Sandilands outranked Chief Inspector Fourier by a mile.

Fourier dropped the card carelessly on to his desk amongst the disordered piles of papers cluttering the surface. ‘But a commander who has no crew, no ship and has entered foreign waters. Seems to me you’re up the creek without a paddle, Commander.’ Fourier’s hacking, gurgling cough, Joe realized, was laughter and a sign that he was enjoying his own overworked image. ‘You seem to have a turn of speed at least though, I’ll grant you that! How in hell did you manage to get here so fast? Crime wasn’t committed until late last evening.’

Joe decided to ignore the slight and respond to the human element of curiosity. ‘Wings,’ he said with a smile. ‘Wings across the Channel. The night flight from Croydon. We landed a second or two before Lindbergh. I was coming to Paris anyway. I’m to represent Britain at the Interpol conference at the Tuileries.’ Joe’s smile widened. ‘I’m due to give a paper on Day 3 ... You might be interested to come along and hear . . . It’s on international co-operation, illustrated by specific examples of Franco-British liaison.’

A further bark expressed disbelief and scorn. Joe held out his hand. ‘My card? Would you? I’m sure I saw you drop it into this rats’ nest.’ He kept his hand outstretched and steady – an implied challenge – until his card was safely back in his grasp.

‘And now, to business,’ he said briskly. ‘Perhaps you’d like to introduce me to your prisoner and outline the grievance you have with him.’

At last he felt he could turn and look at George with a measure of composure. Had he reacted at once according to his gut instinct, he would have hauled Fourier over his desk by his greasy braces and smashed a fist into his face.

George was almost unrecognizable. Old and weary, he had been put to stand in the centre of the room, back to the window, in bloodstained undervest and drooping evening trousers. Braces and belt had been taken away, his shoes gaped open where the laces had been removed. A familiar procedure. But used here, Joe guessed, not so much to prevent the prisoner from hanging himself as to humiliate him. One eye was blackened and a bruise was spreading over his unshaven jaw. He seemed uncertain as to how to greet Joe and embarrassed by his own appearance. His slumped shoulders straightened when Joe and Bonnefoye turned to him and he shifted slightly on his feet, planted, Joe noticed, in the soldier’s ‘at ease’ position. But there was nothing easy about George’s circumstances.

Joe decided to play it unemotionally and by the book. ‘Sir! How very good to see you again after all this time. My sympathy and apologies for the plight in which you find yourself. I’m at your service.’

George licked his lips and finally managed, in a ghost of his remembered voice, to drawl: ‘Jolly good! Well, in that case, perhaps you could rustle up a glass of water, eh? Perhaps even some breakfast? Hospitality around here not wonderful . . . I’ve eaten and drunk nothing since a light pre-theatre snack yesterday. Though I discern . . .’ he said, waving a hand under his nose, ‘that you two boulevardiers have been at it already. Onion soup, would that be?’

Bonnefoye looked down at his feet, unable to meet Joe’s eye.

If he gave way to the explosion of rage that was boiling within him, Joe realized he would be thrown off the premises at best, perhaps even arrested and lined up alongside. At all events, he might expect a damning report on his conduct to be winging its way to Scotland Yard in a mail bag aboard the next Argosy with all the predictable consequences for his future career with Interpol. A passing expression of cunning on the Chief Inspector’s face, the proximity of his finger to the bell on his desk, told him that this was precisely what he was anticipating.

For George’s sake, he calmed himself. His old friend, he calculated from the evidence of his senses, had been kept standing here in this ghastly room for twelve hours with no water or food while his interrogator lounged, coffee in hand, taking time off from his questioning through the night, relieved by his sergeant at intervals. Joe imagined Fourier had a camp bed somewhere about the place to which he could retire when the proceedings began to bore him.

Joe glanced with concern at George’s legs. Long, strong old legs, a polo player’s legs, but he was aware of an involuntary twitching in the region of the knees. There were shadows of exhaustion under his eyes. One of those eyes was almost closed now by the spreading purple bruise. The other bravely essayed a wink. With a stab of pity, Joe determined to make a clandestine but close inspection of the knuckles of both Chief Inspector and sergeant. Whichever had done the damage to George’s face would pay.

Fourier gave him sufficient time to absorb the prisoner’s condition and to spring an attack and, as it did not materialize, he added further fuel to Joe’s anger. ‘Breakfast? Not quite sure where
milord
thinks he is . . . the Crillon, perhaps? As he seems to be prepared to react to
you
perhaps you could convey my regrets. No information, no refreshment. I can keep him here for a further twelve hours, though I would not like to mar my reputation with the magistrate for speed and efficiency.’

The scornful ‘
milord
’ had given Joe an insight into Fourier’s character. He had already noted the countryman’s accent. He was not experienced enough to identify it but it quite definitely was not a Parisian voice and it was not the voice of a man who prided himself on his culture as did most of the Frenchmen Joe had met. This implacable, humourless man could, in a past century, have taken his place on the Committee of Public Safety alongside Danton, Marat, Robespierre and the other bloodthirsty monsters who had spawned the Revolution. Only three generations separated him from his sans-culotte ancestor, Joe supposed. And here was the descendant, still flaunting his traditional twin hatreds: the aristocracy and the English. George was doubly his target.

Joe’s fists clenched at his sides but it was Bonnefoye who cracked first.

Chapter Seven

Joe had been aware for some time that shame had been doing battle with disciplined deference in his friend. But the young Inspector was a Burgundian by birth and possessing the Burgundian traits almost to the point of caricature. Merry, deep-drinking, wily and – above all – proud.

Bonnefoye stalked to the desk, seized the Perrier bottle by its elegant neck and proceeded to fill the water glass with the deft movements of a waiter. ‘The Crillon it clearly is not,’ he said affably, ‘nor yet is it the Black Hole of Calcutta.’

He presented the glass to George and watched him empty it with one draught, bubbles and all. George handed it back with an appreciative belch.

‘Eternally grateful, young man.’

‘George, this is my colleague Jean-Philippe Bonnefoye. Inspector Bonnefoye,’ said Joe. ‘Though not for much longer,’ he added to himself with an eye on Fourier. Expressionless, the Chief Inspector had unscrewed the cap of his fountain pen and was making a note on a pad at his elbow.

Was recklessness a Burgundian characteristic? Or was it Gascon? Joe wondered. Whichever it might be, Bonnefoye was demonstrating it with relish. His next act of defiance was to reach over and ring the bell. The sergeant came in at once. ‘We need some chairs in here. Fetch three,’ said Bonnefoye.

‘Yes, sir,’ muttered the sergeant. He looked sideways for a countermanding order, but, receiving none, bustled out.

Another note was scratched on the pad. Fourier’s mouth twisted into an unpleasant grimace which Joe was alarmed to interpret as a smile.

A moment later three stacked chairs made their appearance and Joe and Bonnefoye took delivery, lowering Sir George with creaks and groans down on to one of them. They seated themselves one on each side of him, protective angels. Joe sighed. He feared Fourier’s pad was going to be overflowing with damning comments before the hour was up. He exchanged a grin with Bonnefoye. Ah well . . . in for a penny . . .

‘And now, Fourier, if you wouldn’t mind – your
procès verbal
. How’s it coming along? The sooner his statement’s in, the sooner we can get it to the clerk’s office . . .
le greffe
? Is that what you’d say? And then we can all get out of your hair and you can get back to the business of arresting someone for the killing in the theatre.’

‘I have him. The killer sits between you,’ said Fourier in a chilling tone. ‘Here’s what Jardine has confided. Here – why don’t you take it. Read it. Come to your own conclusions.’

Joe was alarmed to hear the certainty verging on gloating in his voice. He took the meagre account, amounting to no more than two sheets of paper, and began to read. He was quick to pass the report to Bonnefoye who ran through it and looked up, disturbed.

‘Sir George,’ Joe began, ‘I’d like you to go through this with me, confirming, if you would, that the Chief Inspector has not misinterpreted anything you had to say. Adding anything you feel has been overlooked. Bonnefoye and I between us ought to be able to hack together something solid. Now . . . you detail your reason for attending this particular performance . . . The gift of a ticket, you say?’

‘Not actually a ticket,’ corrected George, opening in the voice of the meticulous witness, ‘one of those annoying tokens they issue. A sort of ticket for a ticket – you cash the first one in for the real thing when you get to the theatre. It’s a ridiculous system for extracting more francs from –’

‘Sent to you by a cousin, you say?’ Joe set him back on course.

‘No, I don’t say. Not for certain. I kept the note that came with the token. Fourier has it,’ he said.

Fourier passed over a torn envelope and a short note.

‘John? Just “John”? Could be anyone, surely? Does this help?’ Joe asked.

‘No help at all. I must know about two dozen Johns and most of them likely to be passing through Paris sometime during the year. I took it to be my young cousin John who’s posted to the Embassy here though I didn’t at first catch on – always call him Jack, you see. These people,’ George waved a gracious hand in the direction of the Chief Inspector, ‘allowed me a phone call at least though they insisted on doing it for me. They got hold of him at the Embassy and I’d guess it’s due to his efforts on my behalf that you’re here, Commander.’

‘You may also wish to see this,’ smiled Fourier. He passed over a scrawled report on a sheet of Police Judiciaire writing paper. ‘I sent out an officer to interview the gentleman, of course.’

Joe summarized the statement, reading aloud: ‘“Confirm Sir George Jardine my cousin . . . no knowledge of any gift of theatre tickets. Didn’t even know he was in Paris.” Ah. Some mystery there, then. Well, moving on: you arrived at the theatre –’

‘Where he was ambushed by a second mystery,’ Fourier interrupted. ‘Are you now, in this welcome rush of revelation, going to disclose the identity of the lady who joined you in your box, monsieur?’

Enjoying Joe’s surprise, he added, ‘The
ouvreuse
in attendance on the boxes yesterday evening is a lively young woman and very alert. She it was who discovered your friend in the act of slitting his compatriot’s throat. She identified him as the gentleman from Box A across the theatre. She was able to tell us that, moments before the performance started, monsieur was joined by a woman. A Frenchwoman, she thought, from their brief conversation, and wearing an opera cape. The hood was up and she would be unable to identify her or indeed, remember her face. From the closeness of the chairs in that box, when I examined it, the two knew each other well, I’d say. Or at least were friendly. The bar reveals that both occupants drank a glass of whisky in the interval. And – I would ask you to note – the drinks order was placed before the lady arrived. She was clearly expected. By Sir George.’

‘George? This is nothing but good news! If we can find this lady, she will provide your alibi, surely? Who on earth was she?’

‘No idea! She just turned up moments before the performance started.’ George’s mystification was evident. ‘A lady of the night, I assumed. Well – wouldn’t
you
? Most probably a gesture from the magnanimous John. Whoever he is. Can’t say I approve much of such goings-on! I say – is this sort of behaviour becoming acceptable in Paris these days? The done thing, would you say?’

His words ran into the sand of their silent speculation. Joe paused to allow him to expand on his statement but George appeared unwilling.

He pressed on. ‘You were not able to furnish the Chief Inspector with a description of the lady?’

‘Sadly no. She was wearing one of those fashionable cape things . . . Kept it on over her head. She came in after the lights went out . . .’

‘The lights went on during the interval?’ Joe objected quietly. He was beginning to understand some of Fourier’s frustration.

‘Jolly awkward! I mean – what
is
one to say in the circumstances? Any out and out dismissal or rejection is bound to give offence, don’t you know! I chatted about this and that – put her at her ease. She didn’t have much to say for herself . . . comments on the performance . . . the new look of the theatre, that sort of thing. I gave her a glass of the whisky I’d ordered in expectation of a visit from my cousin Jack who’s very partial to a single malt –’

‘The lady,’ said Joe. ‘What do you have to report?’

‘Um . . . didn’t like the scotch but too polite to refuse. She’d probably have preferred a Campari-soda . . . I think you know the type . . .’ He paused. His mild blue eye skittered over Joe’s and then he drawled on: ‘French. Yes, I’m sure she was French. Spoke the language like a native, I’d say. Though I’m not the best judge of accents. Not perhaps a Parisian,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘Cape all-enveloping, as I’ve said, no clear idea of her features. But – average height for a woman. Five foot something . . .’ He caught Joe’s narrowed look and amplified: ‘Five foot five. Slim. Well-educated. Obviously from a top-flight establishment. Suggest you start looking there. I expect the Chief Inspector is well acquainted with these places? In the line of professional enquiry, of course.’

Joe hurried on. ‘Moving to the finale . . . You say there was a commotion when Miss Baker announced the arrival of the Spirit of St Louis . . .’

‘Commotion? It was a standing ovation! Went on for at least ten minutes. Stamping, shouting and yelling! Quite unnecessary and embarrassing display! And that’s when she disappeared, I think. My unknown and unwanted companion.’

‘And at the true finale – Golden Fountain, you call it? – you observed your acquaintance Somerton to be slumped in his box opposite.’

‘I feared the worst. Well, not the
worst
I could have feared, not by a long chalk, as it turned out . . . Thought he’d had a heart attack. Anno domini, don’t you know . . . Stimulating show and he’d been twining about a blonde of his own . . .’ George bit his lip at his faux pas, hearing it picked up in the energetic scratching of Fourier’s pen, but he ploughed on: ‘A spectacular girl – I’ve given the description.’

‘Yes, I see it. Remarkably detailed, Sir George. She obviously made quite an impression?’

‘The girl thirty metres away was clearly more vivid to Jardine than the one who was practically sitting in his lap,’ offered the Chief Inspector acidly.

‘Opera glasses, George? . . . Yes, of course.’

‘And she disappeared from her box . . . oh, no idea, really,’ said Sir George vaguely. ‘Sometime before the finale, that’s as near as I can say.’

‘And you decided to go over there in a public-spirited way to see if you could render assistance?’

‘Old habits die hard, you know. Taking charge of potentially awkward situations . . . always done it . . . always will, I expect. Interfering old nuisance, some might say.’

‘Sir George has run India for the last decade,’ Joe confided grandly, probably annoying the hell out of Fourier, he thought, but he pressed on: ‘Riots, insurgencies, massacres . . . all kinds of mayhem have been averted by his timely intervention. Adisturbance in a theatre box is something that
would
elicit energetic action.’

‘As would intent to murder,’ replied the Chief Inspector, unimpressed.

‘Tell us what happened next, will you? I see that this is as far as you got in twelve hours, despite vigorous encouragement from the Chief Inspector. No wonder he’s looking a bit green around the gills.’

George described with accompanying gestures the scene of discovery. The Chief Inspector scribbled.

At last when George fell silent, Fourier put down his pen, a look of triumph rippling across his features. ‘And this story meshes splendidly with the eyewitness account we are given by the helpful
ouvreuse
, but only up to a point.’

With a generous gesture, he peeled off another police witness sheet and allowed Joe and Bonnefoye to read it.

‘The lady says . . . I say, shall we call her by her name since she seems to be playing rather more than a walk-on role in this performance? Mademoiselle Francine Raissac states that she came upon the two Englishmen in Box B in the course of her nightly clearing-up duties. The man she refers to as “the ten franc tip” – the large good-looking one (Sir George) – was in close contact with the smaller weaselly one (“the five franc tip”) and she took the former to be in the act of cutting the throat of the latter since the blood was flowing freely between the two and Sir George, who turned and looked up on hearing her scream, was covered in his compatriot’s blood.

‘The men were alone in the box, the partner of the five franc tip being no longer present. Mademoiselle Raissac declares she is unable to furnish us with a full description of the lady. She had never seen her before. She remembers she was young – less than twenty-five years old – and had fair hair. Mademoiselle Raissac further declares the girl must have been speaking French since she (Mademoiselle Raissac) was not conscious of any accent. Mmm . . .’

‘A second elusive fair beauty. How they cluster around you Englishmen! I do wonder what the attraction is,’ scoffed Fourier.

As George seemed to be about to tell him, Joe changed the subject with a warning scowl. ‘I should very much like to see the corpse,’ he said, ‘and hear the opinion of your pathologist . . .’

‘But certainly,’ agreed the Chief Inspector. ‘And perhaps you would also like to examine the murder weapon? Oh, yes, it was discovered. At the feet of the corpse on the floor of the box where Sir George dropped it. A finely crafted Afghani dagger.’ He turned and looked for the first time at George. ‘I understand, Jardine, that you were, at one time, a soldier in Afghanistan?’

‘A long time ago,’ said George. ‘As was Somerton. We both served for a spell on the North-West Frontier. The blade was most probably his own. He had a fondness for knives. And a certain skill with them. It definitely wasn’t mine. I have an abiding aversion for them. I favour a Luger these days for self-protection. Though I make a point of never going armed to the theatre. Too tempting to express an over-critical view of the performance. And these closely tailored evening suits – anything more substantial than a hatpin completely ruins the line, you know.’

Joe was reassured to hear a flash of the old Sir George but was becoming more anxious for his safety as the sorry tale evolved. His old friend, the man he admired and trusted above all others, was in serious trouble.

Fourier clearly didn’t believe a word he said and was looking out for a quick arrest. Possibly within the twenty-four-hour limit he prided himself on achieving. If George had killed this man, Joe was quite certain Somerton had deserved it. But he determined to know the truth. His compulsion was always to go after the truth using any means at his disposal; he had no other way of functioning. And having found out the truth? And supposing it didn’t appeal to him? He smiled, recalling the wise words of an old member of the Anglo-Indian establishment . . . what had been her name? . . . Kitty, that was it. Mrs Kitson-Masters.

‘What could be more important than the truth?’ he’d asked her one day some years ago in Panikhat, at a moment when he was being, he remembered, particularly officious, annoyingly self-righteous. And, gently, she’d replied: ‘I’ll tell you what: the living. They’re more important than the dead and more important than the truth.’ And, as long as George was among the living, Joe would lay out all his energy and skill to keep him there.