Folly Du Jour

Chapter Twenty-Five

‘Before I say another word, Commander. . Inspector. . I want your reassurance that I may walk free from here when I’ve told you what you want to know. I came here as a witness and will leave as a witness. I’ll sign any statement you care to draw up but I must go free. I will give you an address at which I may be reached. If you require me to attend a magistrate’s hearing or a trial I will, of course, do that. So long as the man I denounce is in custody.’

‘And if we don’t agree to that?’

‘Then, one morning, you’ll find me dead in my cell in the women’s prison. His reach is a long one. And the killings will go on. Is that the proof you will be looking for?’

‘Up to you, Bonnefoye. I don’t trust her.’

He could see his young colleague had been fired by the chance of landing a male suspect. A foreigner, a well-to-do foreigner. Fourier would not have hesitated. Was it likely that the madame of a brothel, no matter how successful, could devise these murderous attacks? No, there must be a male intelligence and will underpinning everything. And who was to say he was wrong? Here was Alice on the verge of trading a devastating betrayal for her freedom.

‘I agree to your terms,’ Bonnefoye said after a long pause. ‘And, madame, please do not think of deceiving me. I too have a very long reach.’

‘John Pollock,’ she said simply and held out her mug for more coffee.

Joe got to his feet, agitated, barely able to keep his hands off her. He wanted to shake her until she told the truth. A different truth. ‘I don’t believe a word of this. Nonsense! I’ve met the man. A cousin of Sir George’s would never. .’ He stopped himself from further reinforcing her jaundiced view of men. He was quite certain that she resented the easy camaraderie between them. Why should he trust John Pollock after a half-hour’s interview and herself not at all after five years, was her flawed reasoning.

‘Pardon me, madame,’ said Bonnefoye, icily polite, ‘but to clarify: you are accusing Sir George’s cousin not only of masterminding a series of improbable murders in the French capital and now we must understand in London also — but of accepting a commission from a fellow countryman to kill his own cousin? You say he did not question the projected crime but went along with it, planned it, and had it not been for your intervention, would have executed it?’

Alice considered. ‘Yes. That’s just about it. Well done. Will you write that down or shall I?’

‘I think we ought at this point to mention the word “motive”. Why on earth would he do that?’

‘Oh, come on! Can you be so unaware? What sort of detectives am I dealing with? Must I do all the work?’

‘Be kind, Alice,’ warned Joe.

‘Very well. George doesn’t talk much of it but he’s actually filthy rich, you know. Stands to reason! The man had a finger in every pie in India and many of them are full of plums. That’s what India was all about, you know. John Company. . exploitation. . Empire. . it all boils down to cash. In accounts in Switzerland in many cases. George, with his knowledge of the way things would go — and he it was who pushed them where he wanted them to go on occasions — was well placed to make the most spectacular investments. He’s retired and come home to enjoy the fruits of his labours. He has no heir. For many years his cousin has been — still is — named in his will as recipient of his wealth. But John has lately become concerned about his cousin’s intentions. . his state of mind. . Unleashed from the stifling routine of India, he seems about to plunge into a world of gaiety. Who knows? Perhaps he might even be entrapped into marriage by some girl on the make? And produce an heir of his own within the year? It happens a dozen times a season in Paris! Pity I didn’t think of it myself! Much safer to accept Somerton’s timely commission. After all — the responsibility lies with the client, doesn’t it?’

‘Jack Pollock earns a perfectly decent salary. He may well be ennobled in the near future off his own bat. He doesn’t need, like Frederick Somerton, to wait around to inherit a title.’

Again he was rewarded with the pitying, world-weary gaze. ‘Do you have any idea how much it costs to underpin the life of a titled man? The estate? The household? The ceremony? The motor cars? The city house? The upkeep of a future Lady Pollock? He is like, yet not like George. Don’t be deceived. They are opposite sides of the same coin. Made from the same metal but the features are different. Jack is extravagant, fast-living. Ruthless, they are both ruthless, but, unlike George, his cousin has no conscience.’

‘Set and Osiris,’ Bonnefoye murmured. ‘I knew that ugly creature would stick his bent nose in before long. Good God! That little scene at the Louvre must have given him the idea for all this carnage! Planted a seed!’

Alice looked from one to the other in puzzlement. They didn’t bother to explain.

Half an hour later, a document had been drawn up to Alice’s satisfaction and she signed it.

‘My gun, Joe? May I?’

He took it from his pocket and handed it over hurriedly as though it would burn his fingers.

‘Well, I think I’ll be off now. Don’t bother to get up. I’m sure I can find my way out. I’ll mind my manners and pause to thank Moulin graciously for his hospitality and be on my way. I’ll leave you to curse me when my back’s turned.’

* * *

‘Moulin keeps his brandy in a bottle behind The Man in the Iron Mask,’ said Joe heavily. Bonnefoye poured out generous measures into the dregs of the coffee and they sipped it silently.

‘Which of us is going to tell George?’ asked Bonnefoye.

‘I will. You must be getting pretty fed up with all this palaver. Foreigners messing about in your life, murdering each other on French soil. Jolly bad form, what!’ he finished in an imitation of Wilberforce Jennings’ braying voice. ‘And I must find time to stroll into the Embassy and slap the cuffs on Pollock.’

‘And we’d better watch our backs on the streets. I haven’t forgotten there’s a pet Zouave slinking about.’

‘Well, well! Who’d have thought Fantômas, stalking the streets of Paris, would turn out to be a blue-eyed Englishman reciting the latest cricket scores!’

On their way through the morgue, Joe averted his eyes from the busy scene at three of the marble tables. He’d had enough of death for one day. But he was not to be allowed to ignore it entirely. Moulin called out to them as they appeared. He was holding something bloodstained up to the light in pincers and, carrying on with his work, said: ‘Somerton. Your last customer but one. The toxicology report came through. No, he wasn’t poisoned but they mentioned that he had a very high level of an opiate in his system. A pain-killer. I took a further look at the body. And there it was. A cancer. Well developed. I’d say he had no more than a month at the most to live. Pity the killer didn’t know that. He could have saved himself a tidy sum.’

Quietly Joe absorbed the news and, going to stand at Moulin’s shoulder while he worked on, murmured: ‘The killer did know. The killer, the instigator of the crime, was Somerton himself. He knew, then, he hadn’t got long and was determined to treat himself to a variety of luxuries before he snuffed it. He wanted to see Sir George suffer and in the most dramatic way. .’ He filled in the story as far as it was known to them.

‘Mon Dieu! But — what a lucky escape! You must take your friend out to celebrate his good fortune.’

‘He’s not going to be much in the mood for celebrating when he learns the identity of the man we’ve been calling Set.’

‘Great heavens! You managed to get it out of her? I heard no squeaks of outrage, no rattling of irons?’

‘In the end she was all co-operation. Largely, I think, because the information she was giving us, she knew was most unwelcome to our ears. Set is, in fact, the alter ego of Sir George. The obverse of the medallion — his young cousin. Very sad and disturbing. And it’s not over yet. We’re just off into the night to find and arrest Set. Can’t say I’ve ever tangled with the God of Evil. Any suggestions? Ah well. .’

‘Do I need to prepare a few more slabs?’ said Moulin lugubriously. ‘For goodness’ sake, take care, Sandilands. What gun are you carrying? Are you armed?’

‘Not so much as a toothpick,’ said Joe.

‘Here, take this,’ said Moulin, selecting a shining silver tool from his tray and rather embarrassed by his gesture. ‘Put it away in your pocket. It’s my best scalpel. Razor sharp. Don’t touch the edge! Handle with extreme care.’