Folly Du Jour

Chapter Fourteen

He chose a dark side street behind the place de la Contrescarpe to pay off his taxi. Feeling mildly foolish but in no way allowing this to make him lower his guard, he waited in a doorway until he was sure he hadn’t been followed. When he was fully confident, Joe wandered into the small square lined with cafés and restaurants. The aperitif hour was swinging to a close and the tables were rapidly filling with diners. He browsed the menus displayed on boards outside or scrawled on the windows and made his choice. The Café des Arts, being the biggest and noisiest, had claimed his attention and he went inside to the bar, ordered a Pernod and paid for a telephone connection.

He’d committed Bonnefoye’s number to memory and destroyed the card and, in his state of fatigue, hoped he’d got it right.

The same lively female answered his tentative: ‘Umm. .allô?’

‘There you are! Just in time for supper. You know how to get here? Good. See you in two minutes! Bye!’

No names, no details, he noticed. And none asked for. Whoever she was, Bonnefoye’s female was well trained. And hospitable.

Joe was conscious of the unusual honour the Inspector was doing him and Sir George by extending this invitation to take shelter in his own home. The French rarely asked friends to dinner at their flat or house. Friendships were pursued in the café or restaurant or at shooting weekends in the country. If the Englishman’s home was his castle, the Frenchman’s was a keep with the drawbridge permanently up to repel invaders or visitors.

Bonnefoye had been surprised and enchanted with his first taste of British hospitality the previous winter. Welcoming the Frenchman on an official visit to London, Joe had taken responsibility for the young officer and invited him to spend a long weekend with him at his sister’s house in Surrey. An instant love-affair had flowered. The English family had fallen for Bonnefoye at first sight and Jean-Philippe had been equally smitten. He probably considered he was in Joe’s debt in the hospitality stakes but Joe was, nevertheless, surprised and charmed by the gesture.

And concerned. The man kept his address a close secret and doubtless for excellent reasons. Joe had no intention of bringing danger within his orbit. He was keeping up his guard. He ambled around the square again, marking his exit, and when he was sure he was unobserved, he slipped off into the rue Mouffetard. A lamp-lighter was moving down the street creating romantic pools of light and Joe hurried to get ahead of him, hugging the shadows. He was looking for a baker’s shop. In the alleyway to the side of it he found a door which opened at his tap.

He was greeted by Bonnefoye who closed and bolted the door behind him. ‘We’ve got him settled in,’ he told Joe as he led the way up a flight of stairs. ‘All’s well! Through here — it’s a bit crowded and you’ll have to share a room with me if you want to give the Ambassador a miss tonight. I gave Sir George our only guest room.’

Sir George was sitting at a kitchen table shelling peas. He was under instruction from a middle-aged woman who, with her striking dark looks, could be no other than Bonnefoye’s mother, and he appeared to be doing well at his task. His manicured thumbnail was slicing along with skill, making short work of the pods. When his mentor turned to greet Joe, he stuffed a podful of peas into his mouth and was sharply rapped on the knuckles.

‘Now add the spring onions and the butter. . more lettuce leaves on top. . tiny drop of stock. . don’t drown it. . and there you are! Put it on the stove. Back burner. . So glad to meet you at last, Commander!’ The voice from the telephone. Youthful, bossy and eager. ‘I’m running a little late this evening and I’ve had to call up reinforcements.’ She flashed a devastating smile at George. He grinned and mumbled a greeting across the table, content to take a back seat in the proceedings.

Madame Bonnefoye was much younger than George — perhaps fifty years old but, in the way of Frenchwomen, still attractive. She whisked off her grey pinafore to reveal a black widow’s dress enlivened by a pink scarf draped at the neck. Bonnefoye’s father, he had told Joe, had fallen at Verdun.

‘Jean-Philippe! A glass of wine for the Commander! It’s one from our home village in Burgundy. We bring it back in quantities. You boys have ten minutes to exchange information before you present yourselves at table. It will be a very simple supper: I made some soup to start with, then the butcher had some excellent veal which will be good with George’s petits pois à l’étuvé, followed by cheese and, since Jean-Philippe tells me you Englishmen are fond of sweet things, I’ve got some chocolate éclairs from the pâtissier.’

Joe decided he’d died and gone to heaven and, as he’d always thought it might, heaven smelled of herb soup and rang with a woman’s laughter.

He went to sit in the small salon of the apartment with Jean-Philippe, listening to the chatter from the kitchen. George’s stately but adventurous French sentences rolled out, to be punctuated by sharp bursts of amusement and exclamation from Madame Bonnefoye.

‘First things first,’ said Joe. ‘Security. I’m as sure as I can be I wasn’t followed here. You?’

‘Sure. But we mustn’t reduce the level of precaution. A message came by telephone late this afternoon. From Miss Watkins, I’m afraid. One of my staff took it down and I’ve translated it but I think it’s very clear. All too clear!’ He passed Joe a scrap of paper.

My new boyfriend very keen! He even came shopping with me. Was compelled to go on the offensive. He has a two-inch red scar on his left jaw.

Joe was aghast. He picked out the word which most alarmed him. ‘“Offensive”, she says?’

Bonnefoye cleared his throat. ‘This ties in with a report we had from the Galeries Lafayette,’ he said. ‘To be precise — from the ladies’ underwear department. A customer lodged a complaint against a man she alleged was following and threatening her. Two assistants, who remarked the young lady grappling with a tall man in a dark overcoat, went to her aid and attempted to detain him. Unfortunately he was able to effect an escape.’

‘And the scar? I hardly dare ask!’

‘. . was already a feature of his physiognomy before he encountered Miss Watkins.’

‘Thank goodness for that! But we should never have involved her.’

‘I agree. And it’s too late now to uninvolve her.’ Bonnefoye sighed. ‘But look — if these people are as good as we think they are, they’ll make enquiries and discover that she has absolutely no connection with Sir George and leave her to get on with her hearty tennis life. They’ll assume that she was just spooked by an over-zealous piece of shadowing. He’ll probably get a ticking off from his boss — should have had more sense than to follow her into the lingerie section. And Miss Watkins has certainly got closer — physically at any rate — to the tool they’re using than we have.’

‘That scar? Any use to us?’

‘Yes, could be. I’ve reported it to the division that keeps our Bertillon records. All marks of that kind are listed, classified and kept on card. If the chap has committed a crime before, his features will be on file and indexed. They ought to be able to come up with a few suggestions.

‘The thing that’s worrying me, Joe, is their apparent preoccupation with Sir G. They seem to have him in their sights. But why? Did he see something he’s not told anyone yet? Does he know something he ought not to know? You’ll have to grill him. I can’t seem to get near him. Any attempt on my part at putting a few questions gets batted aside — with the greatest good humour of course. Genial, avuncular, smelling of roses — and he’s as slippery as a bar of soap. But tell me — how did you get on with the widow?’

After a draught or two of the Chablis he was handed, Joe launched into an account of his evening.

‘She was off to Fouquet’s, eh?’ Bonnefoye was entertained by the thought. ‘I’ll make enquiries. We’ll know tomorrow who she met, what they ate, what time they left and where they went afterwards! Are you thinking — there’s one lady who is delighted that old Somerton was done to death?’

‘She told me she had no idea her husband was in Paris — they hadn’t communicated for years. And, of course, she was hundreds of miles away from the scene of the crime. .’ Joe began dubiously.

‘Well, if your mad theory about the crime-order-catalogue business is correct, she would be. That’s the whole point of it. They have the telephone in England and the wires run as far as Paris, remember.’

‘Not sure she fits the frame,’ said Joe. ‘Glad enough, yes, to be rid of the old boy. As, indeed, might be the son I discover she has. The one who succeeds to the title. And who knows what else! We might check on him and the size and nature of his inheritance. But why would she or he or they bother with all the palaver? I mean the showmanship element? The theatre. . the dagger. I watched her examine the knife. I’ll swear it meant nothing to her. She was curious, fascinated even in a ghoulish way, but there was no flicker of recognition. Just an element of his past life she’d rather not think about. Why didn’t they simply have him pushed under a bus or off a bridge? And why wait all these years?’

Bonnefoye shrugged and poured out more wine. ‘Still — glad enough to have them as suspects two and three. I like to collect a good hand.’

Joe raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘Your first suspect?’

Jean-Philippe was suddenly grave. ‘Sir George, of course. I don’t like it any more than you do but the man’s up to his neck in whatever’s going on. You’d have to be blind not to see that.’

Joe produced the doctor’s copy of Le mort qui tue from his pocket and slapped it down on to the table between them. ‘Look at the title, Jean-Philippe. If we work with your suppositions, Sir George will die. An innocent man guillotined for a corpse we haven’t the wits to account for. Somerton will be the death of him, and with our cooperation. I can’t shake off the feeling that someone’s pulling our strings, playing the tune we’re dancing to. And that puts my back up! The pathologist, Dr Moulin, had some interesting observations to pass on. He’s formed theories which support Francine Raissac’s strange ideas.’

He took the small box from his pocket and revealed the contents. ‘Exhibit B. He passed this on too. And listen, will you, to the story the doctor had to tell.’

Bonnefoye listened, wholly involved in the story, turning the gold amulet between his fingers, his face showing fascination and revulsion at the ugliness of the features of the god. Finally: ‘The God of Evil, you say? Brother of the good God, Osiris? And his murderer?’

‘Yes. Set was worshipped throughout Egypt for many centuries. But as a god of goodness. He and Osiris were peas in a pod. But then, apparently, he turned to wickedness and was struck off everyone’s calling list. His subsequent career plumbed the depths of iniquity, you might say. A recognizable myth — in many cultures you find a reference to the evil obverse of a coin. Cain and Abel. . And take Lucifer — after all, the name means “Bringer of Light”. He started off on the side of the angels. Was one of the angels.’

Bonnefoye picked up the crime novel and began to riffle through its pages. ‘Have you seen it yet? The link between your book and your amulet?’

Joe shook his head.

‘Good stories, these! The theme still fires the imagination, you see? Down the centuries and right through into the twentieth.’

Joe didn’t quite see.

‘The evil Fantômas is pursued in each story by a police inspector from my own outfit, the Brigade Criminelle, no less. Inspector Juve, the good guy! And no prizes for guessing Juve’s secret identity. He’s the long-lost twin brother of Fantômas.’

‘Juve and Fantômas, Osiris and Set?’

‘Two minutes, boys! Heavens! Is this how you waste your time? The Série Noire? Don’t you have enough real life crime to occupy your time? And who’s your ugly friend? Not sure I want him in my drawing room.’

‘He’s the man we’re looking for, Maman, and who’s looking for us! Let me introduce you — he’s the God of Evil. And our nameless killer I think now has — according to Joe — an identity. Let’s call him Set, shall we?’

Madame Bonnefoye considered for a moment and then said soberly: ‘Well, if Set comes calling, he’ll run into some fire-power! Your Lebel, Jean-Philippe, the pistol I see the Commander has on his right hip, the Luger Sir George has tucked in his upper left-hand inside pocket and my soup ladle. Come to table now!’

After a long and delicious meal, Jean-Philippe’s mother herded the men back into the salon with coffee and brandy, closed the door on them and began to clatter her way through the clearing up.

Sir George put on an instant show of affability and frank co-operation. ‘Now — I’m sure you chaps must have a question or two of your own to. .’ He was expansive, he was slightly wondering why they had held off for so long from questioning him. He knew he was cornered.

‘Indeed, we do, George, and this time you’re not ducking them,’ said Joe firmly. ‘People’s lives — including, I do believe, your own — depend on your answers. So you must stop all this bluffing and circumlocution and come clean. I will know if you’re lying. Now, I have a list of questions to put to you.’

Sir George nodded.

Joe decided to catch him off balance by launching an easy throw but from an unexpected quarter. Start them on the easy questions; establish a rhythm of truthful responses and the slight hesitation before a lie is told will be picked up by a keen ear.

‘John Pollock?’ he said. ‘Or Jack Pollock — whichever you prefer. Tell us about him.’

‘Cousin Jack? Oh, very well. Son of my father’s very much younger sister, my Aunt Jane, who married a man called Pollock. Only son: John Eugene. He was never a friend, you understand. Twenty-year age gap. Looks on me more as an uncle. Little Jackie! A delightful child! Clever boy and with the Jardine good looks! He must be in his mid-thirties by now. He’s working in Paris, as you remember from Fourier’s notes. He was keen on a diplomatic career when he came out of the army and I was able to put his name in front of someone who was, in turn, able to give him a leg up. Find him a niche, you might say. And they haven’t regretted it. Doing well, by all accounts. Haven’t seen him since a year or two after the war ended. 1921? Possibly. I remember he wasn’t looking too sharp then — recuperating in London. But he had a good war. Quite the hero, in his way.’

‘Your cousin sends his regards and promises he’ll be in touch.’

‘Good. Good. I look forward to that.’

‘I’m afraid we’ll have to tell him any meeting between the two of you will have to be put on hold. Officially you’re in the custody of the Police Judiciaire in a lock-up somewhere on the island. No one but the three of us knows you’re here and that’s how it must remain until we’ve cleared you.’

‘Very well. Sensible precaution. He’ll be the first to understand and approve. Very security-minded, naturally. Next?’

‘Now, sir.’ Joe gathered his thoughts. The next bit was not so straightforward. ‘I’m hoping you feel able to supply us with the name of someone who witnessed your appearance at the theatre and can vouch for the fact that you were in your place across the width of the hall when the murder occurred — assuming it to have happened during the finale?’

‘Yes, I do. Been thinking about it. Racking the old brain, you know. And the name’s come back to me: Wilberforce Jennings.’

‘Who?’ Joe was startled. This was not what he was expecting. He’d been leading George to expand on the information he had slid into — or allowed to escape into — the conversation in Fourier’s office. Joe’s mind was running on a beautiful and unscrupulous woman with a penchant for Campari-soda. And murder and blackmail and extortion and deceit. But here was Wilberforce Jennings stealing the spotlight.

‘Old school chum. “Willie”, we called him. I was surprised to see him. You know how you gaze around the audience to see if there’s anyone you know — well, there was. Jennings. The most frightful little creep, I remember, and I may have completely misidentified him, but he was in the sixth row of the stalls at the end of the row. No idea whether he recognized me. You could always ask, I suppose. If you can find him. He may have allowed his gaze to rest on me in the concluding moments.’

‘When he could be looking at la belle Josephine and a hundred chorus girls wearing not so much as a bangle between them? Worth a try, I suppose. You never know your luck,’ said Joe doubtfully. ‘Can you oblige, Bonnefoye?’

‘Easy. We have access to records of every foreigner using accommodation in the city. There are about six hotels the English prefer to use. We’ll try them first.’

‘And now, George, we’ve got you in your box. . The chairs — pulled into a companionable huddle. . the tray of convivial drinks served and consumed. Tell us about your mystery guest. Who was she? Why are you twisting about in an effort to keep her identity from Fourier?’

Irritated by George’s dogged silence, he tried a full assault. ‘Alice Conyers paid you a visit, did she? Yes, I knew she’d survived. Though I had no idea she was in France.’

‘It’s hard to imagine, eh, Joe? You’re expecting your cousin and there bobs up at your elbow a girl you thought had died in terrible circumstances five years ago. I was never more surprised! She seemed well and happy and sent you her fond regards.’

‘She has good reason to remember me with fondness,’ said Joe bitterly. ‘But why did she show herself to you? I always thought the two of you were pretty thick but. . all the same. .’ Too late he heard the tetchiness amounting to jealousy in his voice. ‘A risky manoeuvre on her part, I’d have thought,’ he said more firmly. ‘You could have arrested her!’

‘I did. She escaped.’ George was breezily defiant.

Joe snorted in exasperation. ‘Sir, are you saying you had the woman in your grasp and you let her loose?’

‘That’s about it. Yes. And, Joe, that’s exactly where I want her — on the loose. At liberty, to go where she pleases.’

Into the astonished silence he set about his explanation. With rather less than his usual confidence he spoke: ‘I’ve resigned my position, you know. I’m free for the first time in my life of duty, protocol, intrigue, politicking of any kind. I’m not so old I can’t enjoy the rest of my life. Got all my faculties and bags of energy. Knees not wonderful but I hear they can do amazing things in Switzerland with knees. Funnily enough, at the very moment when you might say my life was hanging by a thread, I’ve realized the value of it. It came to me on the bank of the Seine this morning. I’m going to make good use of whatever years are left to me and I’m not starting on them by taking the life or liberty of another. Especially not a woman like Alice whom you rightly surmise I have always held in esteem and affection.’

The expression in the blue eyes he turned on Joe was, for once, not distorted by guile, amusement or cynicism. The eyes were direct and piercing and Joe found it hard to meet them. How could he accuse George of negligence in letting Alice Conyers go free when he’d done exactly the same thing himself five years before?

‘And lastly, before you fall asleep, my boy, you’ll be wanting to hear about the rascal Somerton. Do try to concentrate. You really ought to know what it was he did to make a mighty number of people want to stick a dagger in him. Including yours truly!’