Folly Du Jour

Chapter Five

Act followed act and George settled to enjoy himself. Music Hall. This was something he could respond to. And the quality of the turns was high — the best the world had to offer, he would have thought, and lavishly staged. He admired especially a slender woman in a tight black sheath, and was moved to wiping a sentimental tear from his eye as she sang of the fickleness of men. He wasn’t quite sure about the androgynous creature who swung out over the audience on a Watteau-like, flower-bedecked swing and, at the end of the act, peeled off a blonde wig to reveal a man’s hairless scalp. Not entertaining. But he enjoyed the lines of chorus girls, performing complex manoeuvres to the split second. Some backstage drill sergeant deserved a commendation, George reckoned.

To huge enthusiasm, Josephine Baker made a second appearance just before the interval but this time she sang. Coming forward and involving the audience with a touching directness she warbled in a thin, little-girl’s voice, strange but, once heard, unforgettable, of her two loves: J’ai deux amours, Mon pays et Paris. .

Everyone including George was enchanted. Except, apparently, for Alice. She leaned over and whispered: ‘Two loves? Is that all she’s declaring? Ha! And the other thousand!’ Miss Baker bowed and laughed and made her way offstage, the curtain was lowered and the lights began to come on again in the auditorium. Alice started to fidget. Under the pretence of stretching her legs, she moved her chair stealthily back a foot or so and lifted the hood of her cape to cover her head again. Odd behaviour. George wondered whether he should remark on it and decided to give no indication he’d noticed anything strange. If she wanted to tell him, she would tell him in her own good time of whom she was so afraid. But he rather thought it was not her intention to confide in him at all. Do you whisper your terrors to the trunk of a sheltering oak tree when the lightning is flashing all around? No, you stay under its branches looking out, with just the anxious eyes Alice was trying to hide from him, until the storm was over. But perhaps there was some revealing reaction he could provoke?

‘Ah, the interval already,’ he exclaimed jovially. ‘I say, Alice, I was rather expecting my cousin Jack would be with me tonight. I’ve ordered up a tray of whisky. . not at all suitable for a lady. I’ll just speed off and change that to champagne, shall I? Or is there something else you’d prefer? Now what was that pink drink you used to like?’ He started to get up. ‘Though — we could go and show our faces in the bar?’

Her reaction was instant. She seized him by the arm, trying to hold him in his place. ‘No! You’re quite wrong, George. I’ll drink whisky with great pleasure. Don’t go off into those crowds, you’ll never find your way back and we’ll lose minutes of precious time. It’s been five years — you must have such lots to tell me. Let’s just stay quietly here, shall we? And talk about old times.’ And then, with relief: ‘Ah — here are our drinks.’

So — he hadn’t imagined her nervousness, her undeclared need to stay close to him. She decidedly didn’t want to be left alone up here, ogled by the crowd.

Even the waiter came in for a searching look from Alice and she fell silent, watching his every move until he left with his tip. George poured out two glasses, offering her one of them.

‘Let’s drink to absent friends,’ he said, still probing.

She smiled. ‘So many of them! But I’m thinking of one in particular. Of Joe. Joe Sandilands. My handsome Nemesis. Do you remember? Do you know what became of him?’

‘Indeed. A dear friend. Joe’s doing well. I follow his career with interest. We’ve arranged to see each other in London when I move on there. I understand he’s gone on dodging bullets and breaking hearts — you know the sort of thing.’

Alice gurgled with laughter. ‘I rather think he broke my bullet and dodged my heart,’ she said. ‘But I’m glad to hear he’s being a success.’

George noticed that she sipped delicately at her whisky, controlling her features to hide her dislike. He decided to torment her. ‘Not too fond of the hooch, I see? I’d have expected you to down it in one with a resounding belch — seasoned gun-slinger that you are.’

He settled back into his seat, pleased to have evoked — and, he was sure, accurately interpreted — an instinctive reaction. The slightest twitch of her right hand towards her right side told him all he wanted to know.

‘Don’t worry — it doesn’t show,’ he confided. ‘The bulge, I mean. That cape covers a multitude of sins.’

In India, for many good reasons, she’d always gone about armed. He’d met her just after the war when she’d first come out from England. The unexpected inheritor of an old-fashioned family trading company of international importance, young Alice had set about reorganizing the business with dash and inspiration. Her hands on the reins had been firm and capable and she found many to applaud her performance. For her admirers — and George counted himself one of the foremost of these — Alice was beautiful, talented and enchanting. But the ruthlessness she had inevitably needed to exercise had made her enemies. Enemies who would not shrink from removing her permanently from her post at the head of the company. Her own husband, George remembered, had led this faction.

And, it seemed that for Alice Conyers, though thousands of miles separated her from the scenes of her alleged crimes, there were still people she needed to defend herself against, even here in civilized Paris. She smiled and raised an eyebrow in affected incomprehension at his remark and launched into a bright inconsequential chatter which she maintained with some skill throughout the interval. A surprisingly easy conversation. She gave every sign of enjoying the gossip he had to lay out and added a few insights and reflections of her own which took him by surprise. ‘But I had no idea, Alice!’ he heard himself exclaiming. ‘I say — can you be certain of that? Well, I never! Deceitful old baggage! And her daughter was. .? You don’t say!’

Any third party joining them would have heard a friendly couple talking with enthusiasm and good humour of mutual acquaintances, of experiences they had shared. They were professionals in their own separate ways, the pair of them, George reflected. They could play this game till the cows came home. And often had. But they both greeted the removal of the tray announcing the start of the second half with relief.

At least he would now be able with some confidence to hand her over to the authorities with a warning: ‘Disarm her and don’t listen to a word she says.’ Something on those lines. He doubted that the flics would know what he was on about if he talked of Circe and her spells, the ensnaring silver sounds of the Sirens. No, better just to say the woman’s got a pistol under her cloak and she’s wanted on two continents.

A considerable feat of engineering, he judged, was what they were witnessing. To more preparatory blasts of jazz music, a huge egg of highly decorated Fabergé fantasy, its shell trimmed all about with golden flowers, began to descend slowly from the great height of the theatre roof and slowed to hover low over the orchestra pit. After a moment, the device burst open like a flower, the petals thrust apart by the person crouching inside. The floor of the golden oval gleamed and shimmered in the carefully placed spotlights, a mirror reflecting the figure of the occupant. Josephine Baker stood, slender, motionless, arms slightly extended towards her audience with all the naked dignity, George thought, of the wondrous Tanagra figurines he’d seen in the Alexandria museum. The same rich earthenware colour, the same grave attitude and finely modelled features. A goddess.

But then the deity grinned — a very ungodlike smile — wide and flashing with good humour. Her elbows went out to her side, akimbo, her legs, apparently disjointed, echoed the movement, and, twitching frenetically in rhythm with the band which now belted out a Charleston, she danced. Shocking, mad but compelling, her movements caused the only piece of costume she wore — a string of silvery bananas around her waist — to jiggle and bounce, catching and reflecting the light.

The dance was soon over. The petals of the flower closed over her and she was hoisted slowly back up into the shadows of the roof, to deafening applause.

More acts followed, thick and fast and with little continuity, but all were first rate of their kind. The audience remained appreciative, knowing they were to see one more appearance by the star who always, according to Alice, returned to join the dancing troupe and the other performers for a huge and lavishly dressed finale — the ‘Golden Fountain’.

But this evening they were treated to an extra, unscheduled appearance by Miss Baker. In the hour or so between her acts when she might have been expected to be relaxing in her dressing room, she suddenly, between two turns, dashed on to the stage and came forward to speak into the microphone. The spotlight operator had just followed offstage a handsome young crooner and was taken aback, as was everyone, but recovered to track back and highlight the star. Her stagecraft overcame her excitement and she waited until she was illuminated to claim the full attention of the audience. She looked around the auditorium, her hands extended in the peremptory gesture artistes use to indicate that applause would not be welcome at this moment. Her head flicked from side to side, involving the occupants of both boxes, and she was ready. George listened, breathless with anticipation. He had the impression she was speaking directly to him.

‘Bonnes nouvelles! Ladies and gentlemen,’ she said in her warm American voice, ‘Charles Lindbergh has arrived! The Spirit of St Louis has landed in France!’

The outburst that greeted this simple statement was extraordinary. George put his hands over his ears then took them down again to join in the clapping. Shouts, whistles and cheers rang out. Most of the male members of the audience, and some of the women, climbed on to their seats, the better to express their enthusiasm. The din went on in many languages as people translated for each other. Americans in the auditorium were singled out for especially warm congratulations.

George’s trained observer’s eye delighted in identifying the different nationalities’ reactions amongst the audience. The unrestrained whooping of the American contingent was unmistakable, the clapping and murmuring of the English a counterpoint and, underpinning all, the squealing, fluttering expressiveness of the French. He wouldn’t have expected such warmth from them, he thought, saddened as the nation was by the news that its own French entrant in the race to make the crossing had been lost at sea only a week ago. He wondered cynically whether they rightly understood that the St Louis whose spirit was now amongst them was a southern American town — and, coincidentally, the home town of Miss Baker — and not, as they might be forgiven for understanding, a reference to their own saintly king of France.

He leaned to share this thought with Alice, to find that he was once again alone in his box.

Wretched girl! His first feeling of self-recrimination for his careless lapse in attention was followed very quickly by one of intense relief. There was absolutely nothing he could do about it. He luxuriated in the feeling for a moment. She was no problem of his. He pictured her scuttling away to hide herself in a city she’d made her own. He could never find her now. Useless even to think of pursuit. He struggled with a reckless and bubbling joy, acknowledging for the first time the nature of his concern for the woman. Against all his fears, she was alive and had taken the time to show herself to him. The irrepressible thought that came to mind was: ‘Good luck, Alice, wherever you’re going. I hope you get away with it at the last! Whatever you’re up to. .’

He acknowledged that the glamour had faded from his evening but sat on and admired the last flourish — the ensemble gathering staged amidst miles of golden satin, tulle, sequins and bobbing ostrich feathers — and clapped heartily as the curtains swung closed for the last time. As the house lights came on, he glanced across to the opposite box to check on the rogue Somerton.

‘Ah! So your girl’s cut loose too!’ he muttered to himself, surprised to see that his acquaintance was alone. Surprised also to find that Somerton was sitting slumped over the rim of the box, fast asleep. ‘Through all that din?’ George was instantly alert. The man’s posture was unnatural. No man, however elderly, could have snoozed his way through that performance. Alice’s warning words concerning heart attacks among the susceptible flashed into his mind. Good Lord! The poor old bugger had had a seizure! No more than he deserved but — all the same — what bad luck. And the girl must have gone off to seek assistance.

George gathered himself together, preparing to battle his way to the exit through the still over-excited crowds. He fought against his sense of duty but it won. Suppose the girl didn’t speak English? That she didn’t know the identity of her escort? That she had just abandoned him to be swept up with the discarded chocolate boxes? His diplomat’s antennae for international scandal were sending him signals he could not ignore. The villain was, after all, a baronet, now possibly a dead baronet, and if the gutter press were to get hold of the circumstances, he could imagine the headlines. But the other news of the evening, luckily, George argued with himself, would squeeze the plight of an English aristocrat off the front pages. Nevertheless, and cursing his compulsion always to take charge of any delicate or dangerous situation, George hesitated and then, mind made up, turned resolutely to shoulder his way against the tide flowing towards the bar and the exits and headed for Somerton’s box.

He gave a perfunctory tap and walked straight in. Somerton was indeed by himself and, to all appearances, fast asleep, head comfortably cushioned on the padded upholstery. George cleared his throat noisily and followed this with a sharp exclamation: ‘Somerton! Come on, wake up! Show’s over!’

The absolute stillness and lack of response confirmed all George’s fears. He moved over to the man and knelt by his chair placing a finger behind his right ear where he might expect the absence of a pulse to tell him all. He snatched his finger away at once. He looked at his hand in horror. Black and sticky in the discreetly dim light of the box, there was no mistaking it. With a surge of revulsion, George seized hold of the chair-back to hoist himself to his feet. He had not thought to calculate the effect of his considerable weight being applied in a desperate manoeuvre to the elegant but insubstantial modern chair. It tilted and the body of Somerton heeled over, threatening to land in his lap. The expressionless face was inches from his own, eyes staring open but focused on a presence beyond George. George’s hand shot out in an instinctive attempt to support the back of the lolling head which seemed about to roll away. A wide slash across the throat had almost severed the head from the rest of the body and quantities of blood had gushed all the way down his shirt and evening dress.

Ignoring the protests of his arthritic old knees and gargling with disgust, George staggered upright, taking the weight of both the chair and the lolling body against his chest, struggling to right them.

A gasp and a squeal made him turn his head in the middle of this black, Keystone Cops moment and he saw ‘his’ ouvreuse standing huge-eyed and speechless in the doorway.