Folly Du Jour Read online

  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? Y
ou’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!’

  Chapter Fifteen

  George took a fortifying swig of his brandy and lapsed into thought.

  ‘Look here, chaps,’ he said finally, ‘I know you’re both men of the world and violence is your stock in trade, so to speak, but what I have to tell you is shocking and offensive. In the extreme. You must be prepared. It may be that, when you understand the kind of man he was, you’ll be less eager to pursue his killer. A plague-infested rat . . . a striking cobra . . . Somerton . . . the world would always be well rid of them.

  ‘He was commanding officer of a military station in the north of India. Before the war. Known to me – we’d met briefly during a tour on the Frontier and I’d formed a dislike for the fellow then. The affair I’m about to mention was hushed up to avoid bringing disgrace on the British Army at the time so – if you’ll excuse me – I’ll respect that and give you no names, no pack drill.

  ‘You’ll know, Joe, that when outfits turn rotten, you always find the cause of it is the commanding officer. And Somerton’s was a rotten outfit. Oh, outwardly crisp – their drill and appearance could never be faulted. Indeed, in the way of such men, he was a stickler for detail, regimentation. So, the fact that he was running a brutish, bullying crew, moulded by him in his own image, was likely to be overlooked. They were never seriously tested militarily – I’m speaking of the period before the war when there was always the danger of units turning soft through inactivity and boredom – so I can’t speak for their fighting qualities. After the event, the whole corps was broken up and dispersed. I presume they went to France and many must have perished on the battlefields, along with the rest of the army of the day. I’m probably the only man left alive who would be willing to tell the tale but there must be many more who remember and will always stay silent.

  ‘There was a native village on the outskirts of the station . . . usual arrangement. Many of the local men undertook work for the army. One day the rubbish collectors, going about their business, found a body on the rubbish tip. It was the corpse of a young girl from their village. They all recognized her. She was the daughter of the dhobi – the laundryman.’ Sir George was uneasy with his story, his delivery flat and deliberately uninvolving. ‘They thought at first she’d been torn apart by jackals. The station doctor was summoned. Fast turnover of doctors in that unit. They never stayed long before asking for a transfer and this one was newly arrived. He involved himself before consulting the commanding officer. Had the body brought in for examination.

  ‘The girl had been the victim of multiple assaults. Of a sexual nature. She’d been raped. Many times. Also beaten and cut with a dagger and, finally, strangled. She was twelve years old.’ George’s head drooped and he seemed unable to carry on.

  Joe and Bonnefoye could find no words to encourage him.

  ‘Somerton tried to cover it all up. No need of a report for such a matter. Who was lodging a complaint? The father? Pay him off! A few rupees would close his mouth. But the medical officer was made of stern enough stuff to stand up to him. He sent in a full report to Somerton’s superior officer and he sent a copy to me.’

  ‘Was a proper investigation conducted?’ asked Joe.

  ‘I insisted on it. I put my best men in to get to the bottom of it and when I heard what they’d discovered I took steps. They found that the girl had been sent – against her will and against custom – into the camp to deliver items of laundry urgently needed by the CO. Women never ventured near the place as a rule – the men had a reputation for savagery of one sort or another. The poor child must have been terrified to be given the errand but girls in that country obey their fathers. She’d delivered it to Somerton’s quarters. She’d been seen going inside and coming out again. This was the story my men picked up from every witness. A word-perfect performance, they judged. Too perfect. Rehearsed. They went to work and after some days finally found sitting before them at interview a young chap fresh out from England and as yet untrained in the ways of that regiment. He spilled the beans.

  ‘Put his own life in danger, of course, by his assertions and we had to take him away directly to a place of safety and hold him in reserve for the trial. He stated that the girl had indeed come out of the CO’s quarters but thrown out screaming and bleeding and in great distress – by Somerton himself. Some of his men had gathered round on hearing the din and our recruit had been horrified to hear his instructions: “She’s all yours, lads, if you can be bothered!”

  ‘Our chap ran away and hid and no one was aware that he’d seen anything, but he was able to give a full list of those involved. We had the names and rolled it up from there. The men had bragged about it to each other openly afterwards. They never knew exactly who had shopped them. It wasn’t difficult to get a confession from most of them.’

  ‘And you left him alive, George?’ said Joe quietly.

  ‘A court martial was held and he was found guilty. Kicked out of the army with every ounce of parade and scorn they could muster. A pariah for the rest of his days. I thought that was punishment enough. At the time. I wish now I’d had the bugger shot. I could have arranged it.’

  ‘Why did you hold off?’ Bonnefoye wanted to know.

  ‘The fellow had a wife and young son back home. And, on the whole, a cashiering makes less of a splash than an execution.’ He sighed. ‘Discretion, always discretion.’

  Suddenly angry, he burst out: ‘And now see where discretion and pity have landed me! In danger of losing my head because the silly bugger’s got his comeuppance! And I didn’t even have the satisfaction of plunging a dagger into his snake’s heart! It’s a thankless task you two fellows have got on your hands. If you find out who ordered up this assassination I shall have to ask you to congratulate him before you slip the cuffs on.’

  ‘He didn’t kill Somerton, did he?’ Bonnefoye com
mented when Sir George, finally exhausted, had excused himself and gone off to his room.

  ‘What makes you change your mind?’

  ‘At the end, when he lost his temper and spoke without restraint . . . I believed him when he said he would have plunged the dagger into the man’s heart. He would have done just that. Quick and soldierly. He’d quite forgotten for the moment that Somerton had died from a gash from ear to ear. I can’t see Sir George sawing away like a pork butcher to bleed a man to death, can you?’

  ‘No, I can’t. But I’ll tell you what, Bonnefoye – the wretched man’s gone off to bed leaving us with a mass of things to do tomorrow. I say, will you . . .?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve arranged for a deputy to take my place and bring me notes of the conference afterwards. I’ll be of far better use to international crime-fighting if I pursue this case actively. We’ll allocate tasks in the morning . . . Though I leave the Embassy to you – I think you have the entrée!’

  ‘And, speaking of entrées – your evening, Bonnefoye. How did you get on in the boulevard du Montparnasse?’

  ‘Ah, yes! Mount Parnassus, home of Apollo and the Muses! Well, there was music and verse, certainly, but it wasn’t at all classical. The address Francine Raissac gave you turned out to be a jazz café. And, you know, Joe, I’d have gone in there anyway! The music I heard as I was passing was irresistible. The performers were a mixture of black and white. There was a guitar but a guitar played very fast, a violin and a clarinet and something else I can’t remember . . . a saxophone? Odd assortment of instruments – you’d swear they only just met and put it together. But brilliant! And the crowd was loving it.’

  ‘Did it have a name, your café?’ asked Joe, intrigued.

  ‘Oh Lord! Some animal . . . they’re all called after birds or animals, have you noticed? Le Perroquet . . . Le Boeuf sur le Toit . . . L’Hirondelle . . . Le Lapin Agile . . . And here’s another one – Le Lapin Blanc – that was it. It’s a bit further out than the Dôme and not as far as the Closerie des Lilas.’