Folly Du Jour (6 page)

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.

Chapter Six

The hammering on the door of his room at the Ambassador Hotel had been going on for a while before Joe Sandilands swam up to consciousness. He looked at his watch. Seven o’clock. The last thing he’d done before his eyes closed was put out the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on his doorknob. He’d planned to sleep until midday at least. And now, only three hours after he’d slumped into his bed, here was some lunatic going against all the well-oiled discreet tradition of a French hotel.

Joe cleared his throat and reached for his voice. ‘Bugger off! Go away!’ he shouted. ‘Don’t you know it’s Sunday morning?’

A silence was followed by another fusillade. More peremptory this time, sharper. An authoritative voice called out to him: ‘Monsieur Sandilands. This is the manager here. You are requested to come down at once to the lobby. We have England on the telephone. Long distance and they are holding. Scotland Yard insists on speaking to you.’

Joe was alarmed. Always cost-cutting, the department didn’t waste money on trunk calls unless they had something serious to impart. He shouted back his thanks and said he’d come straight down to the reception desk.

Minutes later he was enclosed in the guests’ phone booth in the lobby taking a call from the Assistant Commissioner himself. Major-General Sir Wyndham Childs, i/c CID. His dry soldier’s voice leapt straight to the point with no preamble.

‘Having a spot of bother with the French police . . . thought you might be able to help out . . . and how fortunate we are that you’re right there on hand. Look – we know you’re scheduled to attend the Interpol conference – starting when? – tomorrow. Just put that on hold, will you? We’ll send out someone to cover for you and you can rejoin your party as soon as you can see your way through. There’s been a rather nasty occurrence. Over there in Paris. One of our countrymen murdered in his box at the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées last night. Knifed to death, I am informed. The French police have made an arrest and a suspect has been detained in a cell at the Quai des Orfèvres where he’s currently giving a statement.’

Joe marshalled his thoughts, regretting last night’s excesses. ‘That is sad news indeed, sir. But there’s not a great deal I can do. The victim may be English and I’m sorry to hear it, but if, as you say, the murder was committed on French soil it must be the province of the Police Judiciaire. We couldn’t possibly interfere . . .’ Joe hesitated. He wasn’t thinking clearly. Sir Wyndham knew all this perfectly well.

A stifled exclamation of irritation which might have been ‘Tut!’ or ‘Pshaw!’ or even a click on the line startled him into adding hurriedly: ‘. . . unless there’s something I could do towards identification of the body. Do we know who the unfortunate gentleman is?’

An awkward silence was followed by: ‘They have a strong suspicion that the deceased is an English aristocrat and ex-soldier. Sir Stanley Somerton.’

Joe used the pause following this pronouncement to search his mental records. ‘Sorry, sir. Unfortunately, I have no knowledge of the man.’

‘No. I don’t wonder.’ There was no warmth in the reply. ‘He did spend most of his time travelling abroad after all. And kept well out of our sphere of activities.’

‘Have you been asked to send out any members of the family to confirm identity, sir? I’d gladly be on hand to receive them and guide them through the process – it’s all rather different over here. The Paris morgue is not a particularly . . . well . . . you shouldn’t think of sending in someone of a nervous disposition. Perhaps someone at the Embassy could –’

‘Stop rattling on, Sandilands! We’re sending over his wife. Lady Catherine has been informed and is packing as we speak. She’ll be on the noon flight arriving at teatime – you know the score – and I want you to arrange to see her when she fetches up at police HQ. No need to go to Le Bourget to meet her – the Embassy are taking care of all that.
You
can do the hand-holding business in the morgue.’

Joe was encouraged by a lightening in the tone to reply: ‘Right-o, sir. I’ll parade with smelling salts and handkerchief at a time to be arranged. Um . . . have they told us whom they have arrested for this crime?’

‘They have indeed.’ The Assistant Commissioner was once again deadly serious. ‘And this is where you come in, Joe. You will want to be involved in whatever capacity you can contrive for yourself when I tell you that the suspect they’ve arrested is George. George Jardine. Friend of yours, I understand? When we heard, someone said straight away, “Get Sandilands out there.”’

Joe mastered his astonishment and disbelief to reply firmly: ‘Terrible news. But not the disaster you suggest, surely, sir? It must be a misunderstanding . . . a mix-up with the language . . . failure to communicate one way or another at any rate – Sir George is a diplomat. And a top one at that! He has immunity. He might have shot dead the whole front row of the chorus and he could be lounging at ease with a reviving cup of tea in the shelter of the British Embassy out of reach of the Law. Why is he in a police cell? This is outrageous!’

‘Ah, you don’t know . . . you hadn’t heard?’ Agusty sigh down the telephone and then: ‘George no longer has diplomatic status, I’m afraid. He resigned his post a couple of months ago. He’s retired. Hasn’t quite severed his links – talks of returning – but, officially (and that’s all that counts with the French), he’s a free agent, no longer employed by HM Government and no longer under the umbrella of diplomatic immunity. Unlisted. A huge loss. One might have expected them to show some respect for his past position and let the matter drop. But the chap I spoke to who seems to be handling the case is one of those heel-clicking martinets you trip across sometimes over the Channel. Brittle. Self-important. You know the type. We’re not short of a few over here . . . Anyway, I see from your file, Sandilands, which I have before me, that you have experience in dealing with this style of Gallic intractability . . . interpreter during the war, weren’t you? We must have a drink when you’ve sorted all this out – I’d like to hear your slant on old Joffre. Anyway. Mustn’t keep you. Get on down there, will you? Let me see . . . their HQ is at . . . now where did I . . .?’

‘36, Quai des Orfèvres, sir,’ said Joe. ‘Staircase A. I’ve visited before. Makes our HQ look like Aladdin’s palace. I’ll do what I can and report back, er, this evening.’

‘Very well. Oh, and, Sandilands – feel free to reverse the charges, will you? No expense to be spared on this one. Better take down my home number. Got a pen?’

Joe replaced the hand-set and stayed on in the booth for a moment or two, deep in thought. He went to the reception desk where the manager was still hovering nervously with a solicitous eye to the English gentleman now revealed to be an agent of the British police force. Joe spoke in a reassuring undertone requesting more telephone time. He needed to put a call through to this number. He handed him a card, carefully avoiding using the word ‘police’. Guests were beginning to trickle through on their way to breakfast in the dining room and Joe recollected that hotel management the world over had a horror of any suggestion of police activity, even benign activity. Luckily Jean-Philippe Bonnefoye’s card simply gave his name and telephone number.

Joe went back into the booth and waited through several clicks and bangs for the ringing tone that told him the manager had successfully made contact with the number. Disconcertingly, it was a young woman’s voice that answered sleepily. He asked to be allowed to speak to his colleague Jean-Philippe.

‘Colleague? If you’re a colleague you should know better than to ring him at such an unearthly hour! He’s only just gone to bed. Push off!’

He shouted something urgently down the telephone to prevent her hanging up on him and unleashed a torrent of words in which ‘distress . . . emergency . . . international incident . . .’ played a part.

At the words ‘
entente cordiale
’ she finally hooted with derision and gave in. A few moments later Bonnefoye grunted down the phone. He recovered his wits rapidly as Joe concisely and twice over conveyed the information he’d just had from the Yard.

‘Martinet?’ he said. ‘Know who you mean. He’s a bastard. But most of the blokes in the Crim’ are good guys. Look – why don’t you give me time to get myself organized and I’ll see you down there. I’m not involved . . . yet . . . but I can at least perform a few introductions and blather on about international co-operation. Ease your path a bit. In one hour? I’ll see you at the coppers’ entrance. You know it? Good! I’ll just go and soak my head and drink a gallon of coffee. Suggest you do the same.’

The doorman whistled up a taxicab when he emerged from the Ambassador, showered and shaved, and dressed, calculatedly, in conservative English fashion. Thanks to his sister’s careful packing, his dark three-piece suit had survived the journey in perfectly wearable condition. He had put on a stiff-collared shirt and regimental tie. Sadly no bowler hat which would have impressed them; Joe did not possess such a ridiculous item of headgear. No headgear at all, since his fedora was lost somewhere at Le Bourget.

The morning traffic was thick and the taxi, weaving its way through the press of horse-drawn cabs and delivery lorries, was making slow progress. Once or twice in his anxiety for Sir George, Joe contemplated getting out and racing along on foot. The exercise would clear his muddled head, the sharp air would purify his lungs and the sight of Paris, magnificent and mysterious in the dissolving river fog, would delight his eye, but he decided it might make better sense to conserve the physical resources left to him after last night’s experiences. He didn’t want to ride to George’s rescue sweating, foaming and breathless. Calm, confident and helpful – that was what was required. In any case, they were bound to be stunned by his timely appearance on their doorstep and his title was impressive. Deliberately so. A ‘Commander’ with its naval flavour got attention, largely because no one seemed to have the slightest idea what it entailed or dared to ask and some even confused it with ‘Commissioner’ and took him to be the face of Scotland Yard.

With so little information at his disposal Joe could not do much to prepare himself for the interview – even assuming he would be granted an interview with the chap in charge. He planned to speak in French from the outset. Occasionally it was an advantage to fake ignorance. Not many English could converse in foreign languages anyway and the French didn’t expect it. Talking unguardedly amongst themselves, they would often reveal useful bits of information but Joe intended to play no such deceitful tricks on this occasion. Too much at stake. He wanted to raise no hackles. And he wanted no reluctant English-speaking officer with a sketchy knowledge of the case to be pushed forward to handle the communications. Direct access to facts and theories was what he wanted. A face-to-face talk with the martinet. But mostly what he wanted was a chance to see Sir George.

His taxi driver, impatient with his progress on the boulevards, took a chance and nipped down the rue de Richelieu, emerging on the rue de Rivoli at the Comédie Française. They skirted the busy area of the market place, unimpeded. The thick traffic from the supply barges on the Seine to the Halles Centrales had been over with some hours before. A right turn at the crossroads of Le Châtelet took them over the bridge and on to the Île de la Cité. And into the ancient heart of the city.

Joe checked his watch with the ornate clock on the side of the Conciergerie as they turned off the quai. The old prison of Paris had the power to make him shudder even on a spring morning. The arrogant grandeur of its exterior, its pepper-pot turrets flaunting a military past, hid an interior of dismal rooms and thick walls soaked in sorrow. Prison, law courts, police headquarters, medieval hospital, the most magnificent Gothic cathedral in the world – all crowded on to this small, boat-shaped island in the Seine, its prow pointing downstream to the sea. Joe constantly expected it to sink under the enormous weight of its cargo of stone architecture.

Five minutes to eight and they were on the island. He’d do it.

What time did the shows end at the Champs-Élysées? About ten? So poor old George had been banged up in the cells for ten hours. Probably had a worse night than he’d had himself. Joe was surprised that he was still in custody. Such was the man’s presence, strength of character and charm, Joe would have expected the flics to have bowed him out with an apology and an offer of a lift back to his hotel in a police car. A passing unease tugged at him. At any rate, with his talent for putting everyone at ease and getting precisely what he wanted, George would probably be discovered holding court in his cell and ordering up breakfast.

His taxi passed the imposing Law Court building and dropped him outside the police headquarters. He made his way through to the small courtyard where he counted ten police cars and two
paniers à salade
, empty of prisoners
,
lined up on the cobbles. Joe wondered briefly as he walked by whether George had been brought here in one of these Black Marias with their metal grilles. They trawled the streets bringing in a nightly haul of vagabonds, thieves, knife-wielding Apaches and other villains. George would not have much enjoyed their company.

Bonnefoye was waiting by the policemen’s entrance. The two men greeted each other ruefully. A painted sign announced:
Direction de la Police Judiciaire. Escalier A
it added over an unimpressive door. Ancient, narrow and battered, it would not have looked out of place in any Paris back street. The stone slab under the door was worn to a hollow in the centre, witness to the thousands of nailed boots that had clumped their way over the threshold during the centuries. Nostalgically, Joe placed his Lobb’s black half-Oxford right in the centre. Putting down a marker for Scotland Yard. Marking out new territory.

Bonnefoye looked at him through bleary eyes. ‘What a night, eh? I’ve seen you look sharper!’

‘Do I look as bad as you do, I wonder?’

‘Twenty years worse!’

Bonnefoye pushed open the door and hesitated. ‘Are you ready for this?’ he asked. ‘It’s a hundred and forty-eight steps up to the fifth floor. And no lift! But I think we may find out what we want to know by the third floor.’ The building smelled rather unpleasantly of new paint, old linoleum and stale air, with, far in the background, a waft of coffee. Apart from the swish of brooms, the flick of dusters and the mumbled conversation of the cleaning ladies, it was very quiet. Joe could hear the peremptory toot of a barge on the river and the distant ringing behind a closed office door of a telephone that went unanswered. He silently compared his surroundings to the marble-tiled magnificence of the vestibule of Scotland Yard with its mahogany reception desk manned by helpful, uniformed constables and the ceaseless movement of policemen in and out whatever the time of day or night.