Folly Du Jour (23 page)

‘I understand. Expensive whores. Is that what you’re dealing in these days? But, of course, you learned a good deal from Edgar Troop, Brothel-Master Extraordinaire, branches in Delhi and Simla.’

‘These girls aren’t whores! They are
hetairai
– intelligent and attractive companions!’ Pink with anger, she put out her cigarette, creasing her eyes against the sudden flare of sparks and smoke. Calculating whether she was wasting her time in self-justification. ‘You are not in England, Commander. Are you aware of the expression
maison de tolérance
?’

‘I have it on my information list, just above
magasin de fesses
and
abattoir
,’ he said brutally. ‘Knocking shop and slaughterhouse, to translate politely.’

‘Tolerance!’ she replied angrily. ‘These establishments are exactly that –
tolerated –
not hounded out of existence by hypocrites like you. As long as the ladies succumb to their weekly health check – the doctor visits – we break no rules. So, if you’ve come to threaten me, I’m not impressed. If the Law can’t close down those abattoirs in the rue de Lappe, they’re hardly likely to turn their attention on
me
. Not with the list of habitués I have . . .
députés
, industrialists, royalty, diplomats . . . senior police officers,’ she finished triumphantly. ‘
You
will be seen leaving. You may be sure of that! I may even send your superior a photograph to show how his pet investigator adds to his expenses.’

Her lip curled as she played with an amusing thought. ‘Though, in the manly English way, he’d probably summon you to his office to compare notes.’

‘Probably,’ Joe agreed, the further to annoy her. ‘Tell me – where do you recruit? I can’t see you standing in line with the other pimps at the Gare du Nord?’

‘My girls are top drawer! Your sister was probably at school with some of them . . .’ she added defiantly. ‘Some of them I found in the music hall line-ups, some had just run away to Paris for excitement, some are escaping violent men in their lives . . . Not many openings for unsupported girls in these post-war days, you know. Men have flooded back and elbowed women out of the jobs they’d found in fields, factories and offices –’

‘Spare me the social treatise, Alice!’ Joe growled. ‘You look ridiculous on that soap-box, champagne glass in hand, a hundred quid’s worth of ruby over your left ear and twenty girls on their backs down the corridor, working for you.’

If she attacked him now, as he was hoping, he could have the handcuffs on her without a second thought. He’d find it easier than requesting politely that she extend her hands.

‘Very well,’ she said, ignoring his jibe, and added angrily to annoy him: ‘Starry-eyed romantic that you are, I know you’ll not believe it when I tell you – some of my girls actually don’t at all mind the way of life. They’re paid well and cared for.
I
care about them and their welfare. They’re fit and happy. See for yourself if you like. An hour or two on the house? No? Well, perhaps you can accept another glass of champagne?’ She put out a hand.

He nodded, looking at her with stony face. ‘Why don’t you let me do that?’ He went to the sideboard and refilled his glass, taking the opportunity of positioning himself between her and the door.

‘And is
she
well and happy, the little miss who was encouraged to enter the wild animal cage with Somerton the evening before last? The bait you hobbled for the tiger? Did you warn her about the character of the man she was to entertain?’

Alice laughed. ‘Watch out, Commander! Your soft centre’s oozing out of that hard crust! Something you have in common with Sir George. Makes me very fond of the pair of you! My girl wasn’t in the slightest danger. I was on hand.’

‘Because you knew it was never intended that she should finish the evening with him. At a given signal the two of you donned your silken cloaks and disappeared into the Paris night. Or did one of you – both? – lurk behind to ensure the killer had easy access to the box?’

‘How the hell?’

‘A wardrobe of four midnight-coloured cloaks – I’m guessing that your girls, or a small picked unit of them, are actively involved in the other branch of your operation here. A sort of alluring Flying Squad? An undercover ops unit? You were always a showman, Alice. You enjoy playing games. And reading novels. Inspired by
The Three Musketeers
, were you? Well – listen! – this is where it all gets terribly serious.’

He put down his glass on a low table and stood ready to knock her to the floor if she tried to get past him or move towards the bell. To his surprise, she retreated away from the door and went to stand, a hand on the mantelpiece, at the other end of the room. He followed her, careful to position himself ready to block her exit.

‘I’ve got handcuffs in my pocket. Real, steel ones, not forgiving flesh and blood ones. They’ll be round your wrists and I’ll be pulling you with me down the stairs and out into the street before you can say knife. And I’ll hand you straight over to the lads of the Brigade Criminelle who are waiting below. You can sample the accommodation at HQ for yourself. Not sure which of the murders you’ll confess to but eventually you will confess. I don’t imagine even your partner’s influence spreads as far as the inner reaches of the Quai des Orfèvres. He wouldn’t be trying hard to ride to your rescue at any rate, I’d guess. And you’ll have lost again, Alice, to a man who’s made use of you. He’ll wait, knowing you won’t give him away, because by doing so, you implicate yourself. He’ll sit it out until the storm’s blown over . . . until the guillotine at La Santé has silenced you permanently and then he’ll start up again. Madames are ten a penny. He can probably raise one from the ranks with no bother at all.’

‘I’m not sure what you expect me to say. How can I respond to these maunderings? Partner? Who is this partner you rave on about?’

‘The head of the assassination bureau. The undertaker of delicate commissions. Murder with a flourish. That partner. Or should I say – boss? Two compatible services under one roof. The White Rabbit, the jazz club, and its escape hole up here into Wonderland – your part of the organization, I would expect – and then there’s the other. The Red Queen, I suppose we could call it. Wasn’t she the one who rushed around calling “Off with his head”? Or didn’t your perusal of the text take you that far? She was quite insane, you know, and incapable of discriminating. Innocent or guilty, it didn’t matter to her. Heads rolling was all she cared about. And so it is with your partner in crime.’

His voice hardened. ‘I’ve seen his handiwork. Somerton’s head was damned near severed. A youth of sixteen had his living lips stitched together. His sister had her neck broken and her mouth stuffed with banknotes because someone thought she’d spoken to me. Three deaths in as many days! You’re sheltering Evil, Alice!’

‘By God! You haven’t had time to put all this together! Who’ve you been talking to?’ She looked wildly around the room.

‘You’ll be safer with me in my handcuffs, so stop looking at the bell. Every street urchin, every tramp under the bridge will know by this evening what you’ve been up to. It’ll make the morning editions. The authorities may turn a blind eye to whoring but they still disapprove of murder. From this moment, you’re a liability. Perhaps if I left you running loose he’d devise in his twisted, sick mind a way of bumping you off in a spectacular and appropriate way. Let me think now! What could it be? Found strangled with a silk stocking in the bed of Commissaire Fourier? I like that! I’m sure I’d be amused by the headline. Kill two nasty birds with one stone. Alice, you’re finished here. Yes, you’re safer with me.’

She was looking at him in horror. Distanced. Shocked. But still calculating. ‘Safer with you? You’re mad!’

‘Possibly. Leaves you with a narrow choice, Alice. You walk out of the front door with a mad puritan and negotiate your future career or stay behind with a mad sadist and die. Which is it to be?’ He looked at his watch. ‘A taxi arrived just a minute ago in front of the jazz club. I expect your sharp ears picked it up?’

She turned her head very slightly to the window. The thick cream and black curtains and closed shutters reduced the traffic noise on the boulevard to a low murmur.

‘It’s sitting there with the engine idling. We can be inside it and away into the night in thirty seconds.’

Alice had never been indecisive. The last decision he’d seen her take had been witnessed by him down the barrel of a gun. A gun trained on him.

‘Top left drawer of the sideboard,’ she said. ‘There’s a Luger in there. 9 mm. It’s loaded. Eight rounds. Safety’s on. You’re going to have to use it.’

Chapter Twenty-Two

‘Your guard dog’s standing right outside, isn’t he?’

‘Yes. He’s as tough as he looks and he understands English. That’s why I lured you down to this end of the room. Laugh a little, Joe. If you go on snarling at me, he’ll come crashing in.’

She gave a peal of laughter that sounded genuine enough but he couldn’t bring himself to join in. ‘You won’t be allowed to leave here alive, you know. I don’t think we ever expected you’d come here . . . just walk in. Flavius will have sent a message by now . . . To the boss. I’ll be expected to entertain you – to keep you on the premises until he gets here. He’ll want to think up something original for
you.
It’s high time the police had a warning shot across their bows.’

Joe decided to ignore her bluster and concentrate on the present danger. ‘Tell me about him quickly, your Flavius. Is he a one off or is he at the head of a pack?’

He looked again at his watch.

‘He’s from the south. Not bright but quick enough. Vicious. Ex-Foreign Legion. Knife or gun, he doesn’t mind. He’ll have one of each in his hands at the moment. He’s right-handed. He’ll use the knife if he can – we like to avoid noises up here – but if he has to, he’ll shoot you with his pistol. It’s fitted with a silencer. He’s top house dog but there’s a security staff of four more always on the premises. They are wolves. Two North African, two Parisian. Armed. They have discreet house guns for indoor work. Beretta 6.35s. Last year’s model. At the first sign of trouble, two will go out through the back exit and circle round. Two will come straight down the main corridor to back up Flavius.’

‘Where are they all at the moment?’

‘Flavius is right there, as you guessed, at the door. The others?’ She shrugged. ‘Playing cards in their room. It’s ten yards down the corridor to the left. Playing with the girls, given half a chance. They won’t be expecting trouble at this early hour and the girls won’t be busy. We like to keep the staff sweet.’

Joe went to the sideboard. ‘More champagne, m’dear?’ he asked in a louder, drunken voice. ‘Jolly good drop of fizz you keep! What?’ He clinked a glass against the bottle at the moment he pulled open the drawer. It opened silently. He took out the Luger.

‘It’s fully loaded. I did it myself,’ she mouthed.

Joe checked it anyway.

She shuddered as he reached behind his back and took a pair of handcuffs from under his jacket. ‘I borrowed these from a colleague,’ he murmured. ‘I think I can make them work. Do I need to put them on you?’

‘No. I’ll be more use with my hands free. And don’t forget we have to get out through the club. They’re not used to seeing women in cuffs. And they’re not very fond of the police. They might object.’

He slipped them back through his belt.

‘Come closer to the door but stay well to the side. I don’t forget he’s got my Browning. If he fires that into the room the bullet won’t stop until it hits the towers of Notre Dame. Remind me – which way does the door open?’

‘Inwards.’

‘Listen! When I nod, you’re to squeal. Not loudly. Enough to encourage him to come in to investigate. Okay?’

‘Ready.’

Joe took a deep breath then nodded.

Alice squealed.

Joe waited one second then blasted the door with four rounds. The wood splintered as the bullets tore through the flimsy structure. A lozenge pattern of blackened holes marked out a target area two feet square which would reach from throat to abdomen on a six foot two inch man standing at the door.

If, indeed, he had been standing at the door.

Joe heard no scream or oath. Not even a grunt.

Crouching to the side, he listened. Not a sound. No time to wait. The wolves would be slamming down their cards, saying, ‘What the hell was that?’ or murmuring ‘Excuse me, ma’am’ and unsheathing their Berettas. Covering the door space with his gun, Joe reached out, turned the knob and flung the remains of the door open into the room.

Alice made a little wuffling sound in her throat.

Flavius was utterly silent. His huge body lay collapsed, sandbagging the doorway, still pumping out blood from at least two wounds. No screams because the highest and first of the bullets had shot out his throat.

Alice was faster than Joe. She leapt straight at the obstacle, scrambling in high satin heels over the twitching body. Joe followed. As they reached the door to the stairs Alice fiddled with the bolt and double lock and a gathering roar rumbled down the corridor after them. As the door yielded, Alice took off down the stairs.

Joe turned and raised the Luger. He watched the door Alice had mentioned, waiting. The door creaked open and the snub-nosed barrel of a pistol started to slide out. Joe fired. The gun crashed to the ground. Someone howled in pain. Joe fired again blindly through the wood. Two bullets remaining. He waited a heartbeat and fired them off, warning shots down the length of the corridor, then wiped the gun and threw it back towards Flavius’s body. He turned and leapt, three steps at a time, down the stairs. Alice had already disappeared.

When he reached the entrance to the jazz club he paused and listened. The music had stopped, women were shrieking, men shouting. He was in greater danger of being torn apart in a mêlée of angry jazz fans, he calculated, than by the wolves.

He turned and backed into the door, bumping it open. He held up both hands, clearly unarmed, and gestured with a hand towards the stairs, a soldier indicating an enemy position. He yelled, ‘
Au secours!
Help!’ He looked over his shoulder, eyes wide in alarm, and shouted into the horrified silence: ‘Hell! A feller goes to the john and World War Two breaks out over his head! What sort of joint
is
this?’

Two hearty Americans leapt to his rescue and dragged him backwards to safety into the café. All three of them were instantly caught up and struggling in the general surge towards the exit.

God! It was there! Joe hadn’t heard and really didn’t believe in Bonnefoye’s promised taxi but there it was, as he’d described it, panting and choking at the kerbside. A petulant Alice was locked in the back. Bonnefoye was leaning nonchalantly against the driver’s door. He greeted Joe as he dashed up and unlocked the rear door.

‘Do you mind, Joe? Sitting in the back? Standard procedure when we’re carrying a dangerous prisoner. The lady took me for the driver. Understandable, as I was sitting at the wheel. Jumped in and told me to drive to the Gare de Lyon. In quite a hurry. Peremptory, even. Promised me a reward if I arrived on bald tyres! Another woman fleeing your company? What on earth do you say to them, Joe?’

He climbed in behind the wheel and turned off the engine. ‘Well now – what do you have to tell me, Joe?’

‘Four others on the premises, you say?’ Bonnefoye was calm, enjoying the moment. ‘We found the rear exit and covered it. There’s a
panier à salade
round there blocking the alley and ten of our best boys raring to have a go. A section of the Vice Squad are on their way as well. They’ll go in and clear up. Um . . . heard the noise. Are we likely to put our feet in anything up there, Joe?’

‘I’m afraid so. One rather large casualty, bleeding copiously. Not our man – the doorman. Name’s Flavius. Not that he’s answering to it. Problem with his throat.’

‘It was self-defence!’ Alice spoke up firmly. ‘He was threatening me and the Commander had to shoot him.’

‘Much as I dislike contradicting a lady,’ said Bonnefoye pleasantly, ‘I have to say I think you’ve got that wrong, madame. Your guard was shot by one of the other bits of scum you keep about the place with the house gun. I expect if we search carefully we’ll find the . . .’

‘Luger,’ supplied Joe.

‘. . . Luger, yes. Wiped clean? Yes, of course. And we’ll establish that the fracas was no more than a fight over a girl. The usual. We’ll just have to wait and see which one confesses to what, won’t we? But I’m sure one of them will be only too pleased to assume responsibility. Do you want to stay and see the fun, Joe, or shall we take off for the Quai?’

‘Hold on a moment,’ said Joe, still getting his breath back.

Alice had shrunk away from him as he pushed himself into the back seat alongside her.

He stared at her and burst out laughing. ‘Two minutes ago this woman, you’d have sworn, was on her way to the Ritz, sporting the last word in cocktail frocks! And now look at her! Milady de Winter! Fully caped. Booted and spurred probably too if I could be bothered to check. And –’ he kicked a soft leather bag she’d pushed away behind her calves – ‘packed and ready for the weekend, I see. Now where were you off to, I wonder?’

‘Not planning on helping us with our enquiries,’ said Bonnefoye with mock resentment. ‘I was watching her. She tore into the café and spoke to the barman. He handed that stuff to her from under the bar.’

‘My exit bag. I always have it to hand,’ she explained sweetly.

‘And what were you intending to do at the Gare de Lyon, Gateway to the South? From where so many adventures start?’ Joe asked. ‘Return to your old haunts on the Riviera?’

‘Change taxis? Head north . . . or east . . . or west,’ she said, tormenting him. ‘You’ll never know. Not sure I do myself. Joe, are you ever going to introduce me to your charming young colleague? He seems to have the advantage of me.’

‘No. You don’t need to know him. You just need to do as he says.’

He had counted on annoying her, but Joe was taken aback by the fury in the glare she directed at him.

A small black police car screamed to a halt a few inches in front of them.

‘Here he is,’ said Bonnefoye. ‘My associate in Vice. I’ll just leave you for a moment while I fill him in then we can leave. We’ll make for a nice quiet place and put a few questions to the lady. If she answers correctly and reasonably, it may be that she can go free – after signing a statement, of course. If we’re concerned by what she has to say then she may have to proceed as far as Commissaire Fourier. Won’t be a minute.’

‘How long will he be?’ Alice’s voice was strained. He could hardly see her face. She had flung the hood over her head and was shrinking down into the upholstery. Her eyes were scanning the crowds milling about on the pavement. ‘We must leave now, Joe! Call him back! He –
you –
have no idea . . .!’

Joe was reminded of George’s remark about Alice’s strange behaviour. ‘. . . eyes quartering the room like a hunter,’ he’d said and then corrected himself: ‘No – more like the prey. There was someone out there in the auditorium . . .’

And there was someone out there at this moment on the pavement, coming closer. He began to catch Alice’s fear. He spoke softly to her. ‘Alice, we are surrounded by at least a dozen assorted flics. You’re quite safe. For the moment.’

She looked at him, incredulous. ‘You think that will stop him?’

Uneasy, he muttered, ‘Damn! I haven’t got a gun. I really did remember to wipe the Luger and drop it a suitable distance from the body. And – oh God! – I didn’t get my Browning back. No time, even if I’d thought of it.’

Alice bent and fished about in her bag. ‘Here. Take this. It’s only a .22 but it’s a little more effective than pointing a wagging finger.’

He took it warily, resting it along his thigh between them, finger on the trigger.

‘You make me nervous, Alice,’ he said finally. ‘As nervous as you made Sir George on Saturday night at the theatre? And for the same reason perhaps? I’m afraid for my life.
Should
I be afraid for my life? What are your instructions this time? The same as last? Kill the Englishman?’

She looked at him, eyes darkening with suspicion inside her silk hood. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘I mean that I
know
, Alice. I know that you’d gone to the theatre that night, not for the pleasure of seeing Sir George again, but to kill him.’