Folly Du Jour

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.’