Folly Du Jour (8 page)

But there was bargaining to be done. Agreement to be reached. Feathers to be smoothed and arms to be twisted. Joe grinned. He was going to have to discount the pathetic and confused old person sitting next to him and call on all the skills he’d learned from the man he’d first met as Sir George Jardine, Governor of Bengal, Adviser to Viceroys and discreet Spymaster of India.

And the first of these skills had been: never to lose your temper, and the second: to deploy what Joe had always thought of as a type of mental ju-jitsu. Identify and assess your opponent’s strength and, under the guise of accommodation and reason, use its energy against him to propel him arse over tip on to the nearest dung-heap.

He turned a tentative smile of relief on Fourier when he looked up from the notes which were now flowing fast from his pen.

‘I’d say this is going rather well, wouldn’t you, Fourier? But if you’re thinking the magistrate is not going to be happy to accept so much conflicting and inconclusive evidence without the underpinning surety of a confession – well, then, I’d be the first to agree with you.’

Fourier scowled at him suspiciously.

Joe leaned forward in his chair, hands on his knees, fixing his opposite number with a keen stare. He spoke to him with quiet force. They could have been the only two people in the room. ‘I’m an ambitious man, Chief Inspector,’ he confided. ‘You’ve seen my card. You are aware of how I am currently . . . placed –’

‘
Poised
, I’d have said,’ interrupted Fourier.

Joe smiled. ‘As you say – “poised” will do very well . . . poised for advancement. I make no secret of the fact that I have my eye on the directorship of one of the more interesting divisions at the Yard. “Assistant Commissioner” would not be out of the question. There is much competition, many excellent candidates. Not a few are military men who know how to plan an effective campaign. I expect it’s the same over here? And it’s the man who can forge a reputation for himself who will win out. The one who can make himself stand out from the rest. “Ah, yes – Sandilands. Isn’t he the bloke who cleared up that killing in Paris?” I believe I have a nose for an interesting, attention-grabbing case. And we have one here!’ He paused for a moment to allow his excitement to be caught on the other side of the desk.

Fourier yawned.

‘A front-page, sell-every-copy story that could rival the Whitechapel murders. On both sides of the Channel. It has everything one could ask for! Pretty girls, daggers, gallons of blood spilt in the most spectacular of settings . . . And – cherry on the cake – the victim is a
rosbif
– an Englishman for whom we need feel no sympathy. Probably got no more than he deserved . . . I challenge you to invent three possible headlines for this case. Go on, man!’

Joe took out his notebook and pencil and began to scribble. Before Fourier had a chance to call a halt to his games, he rushed on. ‘Got it! I’ve got one for the English press. Not sure that it will do much for you. You’ll have to invent your own.
Death du Jour
,’ said Joe. ‘What do you say?’

‘Not bad. I’d use something a bit longer and more dramatic – that’s the style of our papers. They like to involve a famous person:
Did the Black Venus witness the Angel of Death?
They’re bound to pick up the fact that the star of the show could well have been onstage at the very moment when Jardine struck the blow – only a few feet away as it happens,’ Fourier speculated.

George tensed, preparing to object, but stayed silent, aware of Joe’s tactics.

‘They might use
Throat-slashing at the Folies
. . .’ Fourier went on with ready invention and it occurred to Joe that his mind had already been running in just such a direction. He wondered if George, his mentor, had seen it? Joe had rightly guessed the Chief Inspector’s imperative, his motivation. He’d judged Fourier’s craving for advancement to be at the same time his strength and his weakness and, by ascribing the same ruthless ambition to himself, Joe had made it appear acceptable in his eyes. More than acceptable – commendable. He had bracketed them together, two like-minded cynics ready to exploit a situation for their mutual benefit. Somerton, Sir George, even Bonnefoye were marionettes, their strings in the hands of two hard-eyed professionals.

Joe wasn’t quite there yet but he was on his way to using the power of Fourier’s forward rush to kick him into space.

‘Two Englishmen fight to the death for the favours of a mysterious
fille de joie
. Plea for the blonde beauty to come forward.’ The Chief Inspector was enjoying himself. He shrugged. ‘Well, these news editors – they’ll say whatever they like. Of course, sometimes they respond to a confidential suggestion in their ear.’

He looked at the clock and glared at Sir George. The obstacle between him and his story. ‘Pour the man another glass of water, Bonnefoye,’ he said. ‘It seems to loosen his tongue.’

‘Fourier, may I have a word in private?’ Joe asked.

He left the room with the Chief Inspector, a companionable hand on his shoulder. They returned a minute or two later and Joe went to stand almost to attention by Fourier’s desk, alongside him and facing the other two men.

Fourier cleared his throat and gathered up his documents. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘the Commander and I have come to a decision. In order to pursue the case further, I will be releasing the prisoner from police custody into police custody. Jardine is to be handed over to Sandilands with the assurance that he will not attempt to leave the city. I retain his passport and his documents. I require him to attend for a further interview as and when I deem it necessary.’

He rang the bell. ‘Sergeant – the prisoner’s clothes are to be kept as evidence. Can you find an old mackintosh or something to cover the mess? And you may bring his shoelaces and braces back. Gentlemen – go with the sergeant. He will walk you through the process of signing out the prisoner. Oh, and Commander – your request to examine the corpse – I grant this and will leave instructions at the morgue accordingly. Now – Bonnefoye! I’m not au fait with your schedule . . . Remind me, will you?’

‘Mixed bag, sir. The suspected poisoning in Neuilly – toxicology report still awaited. The body under the Métro train – no ID as yet. And there’s last night’s floating
bonne bouche
dragged from the St Martin . . . And the conference, of course.’ He smiled blandly back at the Chief Inspector.

‘Then I recommend that you get yourself back on track at once.’ Fourier added with menacing politeness: ‘Your contribution to the proceedings has been noted.’

Joe thanked him and, taking advantage of the spirit of burgeoning co-operation, asked if he might fix a time to escort Lady Somerton to the morgue for purposes of identification. Fourier was beginning to see the advantages of having an Englishman on hand, Joe thought, as his response was quick and positive. His own response would have been the same. The dreadful scene of the widow wailing over the remains was always the one to be avoided, particularly when the grieving was being done in a foreign language. It added an element of awkwardness to a situation requiring sympathy and explanation. Fourier seemed to have no objection to passing on this delicate duty. They eyed each other with a gathering understanding and a mutual satisfaction.

The unanimous verdict burst from the three men as they reached the safety of the courtyard below:

‘Arsehole!’

‘
Qu’il est con!
’

‘
Fuckpot!’

Without further exchange or consultation, they quickly made their way out on to the breezy quayside where George came to a standstill, content to stare at the river traffic, enjoying its bustling ordinariness. He listened to the shouts, the hoots, the throbbing of the engines; he narrowed watering eyes against the brilliance of the spring sunshine dancing on the water. He waved and shouted something teasing at a small terrier standing guard on a passing barge. It barked its defiance. George wuffed back and laughed like a boy in delight. An escaper from one of the circles of hell, Joe judged. A night in clink with Fourier for company would make anyone light-headed.

With something like good humour restored, Joe began to lay out a programme for the rest of the morning. He was interrupted by Sir George. ‘The hotel can wait,’ he declared. ‘Now we’re free of this dreadful place, I want some breakfast! Some of that soup wouldn’t come amiss. Where did you get it?’

Joe eyed his dishevelled state and was doubtful; George was looking even less appetizing in the bright light of morning. He could have strolled over to join the dozen or so tramps just waking under the bridge a few yards away and they’d have shuffled over to make room for a brother. But at least, the worst of the bloodstains were hidden under a dirty old wartime trench coat two sizes too small.

Bonnefoye was more confident. ‘Excellent idea! Looking as you do, we won’t take you to a respectable café. Au Père Tranquille
–
that’s where we’ll go. Back to the Halles, Joe. It’s a workmen’s café
–
they’ll just assume Sir George is a tourist who’s fallen foul of some local ruffians. Or an American artist slumming. Wait here by the gate – I’ll flag down a taxi.’

After his second bowl of soup with a glass of cognac on the side, a whole baguette and a pot or two of coffee, George’s colour was returning and his one good eye had acquired a sparkle.

‘I’m curious! Are you going to tell us, Joe,’ Bonnefoye asked, ‘what precisely you said to the Chief Inspector that made him change his mind? Rather a volte-face, wasn’t it? I could have sworn he was all set to have another go at harrying Sir George. Perhaps closing his other eye?’

‘No, no! You’re mistaken, young man,’ said George. ‘I tripped and banged my head against a corner of the desk. But – you’re right – I have a feeling I was about to execute the same tricky manoeuvre on the other side. What
did
you say, Joe, to turn him through a hundred and eighty degrees?’

Joe stared into his coffee cup. ‘I merely suggested that if Fourier had it in mind to apply the thumbscrews, he might like to know that Sir George had been for years a soldier in the British forces, battling the bloodthirsty Afridi to say nothing of Waziri tribesmen in the wilderness west of Peshawar. I enquired whether he was aware that George had at one time been captured by the enemy and subjected to torture of an inventive viciousness of which only the Wazirs are capable. Rescued in the nick of time, more dead than alive after three days in their hands, but having divulged no information to his captors. Not a word. Name, rank and number and that’s it. Surely Fourier, during his physical inspection of his prisoner, had remarked the scars on his back, the dislocation of the left shoulder, the badly repaired break to the ulna . . .? I think he decided at that point that any action he was planning against such a leathery old campaigner was a bit limp in comparison.’

‘Good Lord!’ said Bonnefoye faintly, inspecting Sir George with fresh and wondering eyes.

‘Joe! Come now!’ George reprimanded. ‘Ulna? Wasn’t aware I had one . . . Are you quite certain that’s not one of Napoleon’s victories?’ He turned confidingly to Bonnefoye. ‘It wouldn’t do to believe everything this man tells you,’ he advised with a kindly smile for the young Inspector. ‘He enjoys a good story! Keen reader of the
Boy’s Own Paper
, don’t you know!’

‘Oh, I see!’ Bonnefoye was embarrassed to have been caught out so easily. ‘Well, for a moment, Commander, you had me fooled too! But then, I was always a sucker for tales of derring-do.’ Bonnefoye looked from one to the other, suddenly wary and mistrustful of these two Englishmen who seemed to share the same lazily arrogant style, the same ability to look you in the eye and lie.

He flicked a speculative glance at Joe. Surely he was aware? Could he possibly have been taken in by that performance in the interview room?

‘And now – back to your hotel, George,’ said Joe. ‘Where are you staying?’

‘Hotel Bristol. Rue du Faubourg St Honoré. D’you know it?’

‘Ah, yes. Handy for the British Embassy. Well, a bath and a change of clothes and about twelve hours’ sleep are all on the menu. And when you wake up, there’ll be a policeman by your bedside waiting to take down your statement. Leaving out the invention and prevarication, this time. No more lying! Nothing less than your
uncensored
revelations will do. And the policeman will be me.’

Chapter Eight

As they approached the hotel, George became increasingly agitated. In his hatless, beaten-up state he had been receiving some questioning looks from the smartly turned-out inhabitants. One lady had even crossed the road to avoid encountering him.

‘I say, you chaps,’ he said fifty yards short of the Bristol, ‘better for everyone if I don’t cross the foyer looking like this. I’d be an embarrassment to the management as well as to myself. There’s a side alleyway they use for deliveries to the kitchens. I’ll use that. I know my way about. I’ll nip up in the service lift. See you in my room. That’s 205.’

He would listen to no argument and slipped away without a further word.

Joe and Bonnefoye pressed on to the Bristol and requested the key. Bonnefoye produced his badge and asked the maître d’hôtel to summon a doctor and send him up with the utmost discretion.

Once over the threshold of his own room, George rallied and tried again to dismiss his attendants. ‘No need to wait on me, you chaps. No need at all. I can manage. I’ll see the medic if he appears, for form’s sake, but – really – no need of him. Let’s keep the fuss to a minimum, shall we?’

‘No khitmutgars here,’ said Joe cheerfully, pushing past him into the room. ‘Not even a valet. You’ll have to make do with us. Jean-Philippe – run a bath, will you, while I hunt out his pyjamas and dressing gown. Is this what you’re using, George? This extravagantly oriental number? Good Lord! Now, just sit down will you, old chap . . . you’re teetering again . . . and you can start peeling off that disgusting vest.’

Bonnefoye returned from the bathroom lightly scented with lavender to catch sight of Sir George in his underpants, slipping a purple silk dressing gown around his shoulders. He stood still and exchanged a startled look with Joe. When George had disappeared into the bathroom he hissed: ‘Sandilands! That mess on his back! Scars? Weals? What in hell was it?’

Joe was recovering from his own astonishment at the brief glimpse he had caught. ‘Good Lord! It seems I wasn’t exaggerating. I was just retelling an old story that does the rounds in India. I had no idea it was accurate.’

‘Tough old bird,’ murmured Bonnefoye. ‘Fourier had no idea what he’d run into.’ And then: ‘He never would have signed a confession, would he?’

‘No,’ said Joe. ‘But that doesn’t mean he has nothing to confess. There’s something wrong with all this. He’s hardly begun to explain what he’s involved in. I think he’s been lying to the Chief Inspector but, if he has, there’ll be a damned good reason for it. Fourier couldn’t beat the truth out of him and we, my friend, must use other methods. As soon as we’ve got him settled I’m going back to the morgue to take a look at the man at the bottom of all this – our mystery man, Somerton. No – no need to come with me – I’ll report back. You should go back to your duties, Jean-Philippe – I’ve taken up too much of your time already.’

‘No one will notice. I was given a couple of days to prepare for the conference. Unfortunately, I can’t get out of that and I’ll have to turn up and show my boss my grinning face, I’m afraid. You can telephone me at the number you have at any time – if I’m not there someone will take a message. It’s pretty central . . . Left Bank . . . nothing very special but my mother’s happy there. The rue Mouffetard – do you know it?’

Joe knew it. A winding medieval street of old houses, market stalls, cafés and student lodgings, one of the few to escape the modernizing hand of the Baron Haussman.

‘Just south-east of the Sorbonne? Near the place de la Contrescarpe?’

‘Exactly. You need the place Monge Métro exit. Let me write the address on the back of the card I gave you.’

Joe was amused. ‘You don’t give out your address to all and sundry?’

‘Matter of security,’ said Bonnefoye. ‘Mine!’

‘You have an apartment?’ Joe asked.

‘No. It’s my mother’s apartment. On my salary it will be some time before I can afford to rent one of my own. You have to pay fifteen thousand francs a year for a decent place in Paris. It’s the foreign invasion that’s put up prices.’

‘Invasion? You’d call the tourist influx an invasion, would you?’

‘Hardly tourists! Ten thousand semi-permanent residents have flooded in, mostly American, some British, all keen to take advantage of what they consider the low prices in France and all able to pay more than an ordinary copper for a decent place. Do you know how I’ve spent my time, this last month? Sorting out cases of grievous bodily harm and damage to property on the Left Bank. The
indigènes
of Montparnasse have started to show their resentment of the way the Yanks have taken over whole quartiers. They don’t like the way they buy up cafés and turn them into cocktail bars, they don’t like the food they consume or the way they consume it . . . they don’t like their loud voices . . . they don’t like the way they look at their girls . . . You know the sort of thing. It’ll only take a spark to blow the lid off. Might try raising that with Interpol.’

The hastily summoned doctor examined Sir George and passed him as perfectly well – suffering from shock, naturally, as one would, being the victim of a street robbery – and from the obvious contusions but otherwise nothing to be concerned about . . . Nothing broken. No – a very fit specimen for a man of his age, was the reassuring verdict. All the same, the doctor grumbled, attacks like this were growing more frequent. And on the Grands Boulevards now? Tourists to blame, of course. A honey pot. Too easy and tempting a target for the local villains. It was quite disgraceful that a respectable gent like the patient couldn’t return from the theatre to his hotel along the most civilized street in the world without being beaten up. Where was the police presence in all this, the good doctor wanted to know.

A complete rest with plenty of sleep was his prescription. Of course, there was always the danger at any age of a delayed reaction to a head wound. Was there someone they could summon to sit with him . . . just in case . . . a compatriot perhaps would be most suitable in the circumstances. He left his card and took his leave.

‘A nurse?’ Joe, eager to dash off to the morgue was impatient at the doctor’s request. ‘Is that what he’s suggesting? Where on earth do we dig up a nurse at a moment’s notice?’

Bonnefoye grinned. ‘This you can leave to me, Joe. I think I can work my way around the problem.’ He took out a small black notebook and began to flip through the pages. ‘You go off and interrogate the corpse. You’ll find all well when you get back.’

On the ground floor a lean-faced man in his mid-thirties, unremarkable in sober city clothes, was waiting for a friend. He watched Joe step out of the lift, cross the lobby and greet the doorman. He looked at his watch, shrugged and decided to abandon his assignation. Following Joe outside, he stood patiently by, next in line. He heard Joe speak to the driver of the cab: ‘Ile de la Cité. Institut Médico-Légal.’ The man smiled and walked back into the lobby.

Joe was admitted with courtesy into the Institut. Sombre, forbidding and dank, the building was everything Joe expected of a morgue and forensic pathology department combined. He was going to have to return in the evening escorting Somerton’s widow and he wanted to be certain that he could find his way about, to be prepared to answer any questions she might have. The usual run of grieving relatives tended not, on first confrontation with the corpse, to be particularly searching with their queries. A combination of feelings of loss and the oppressive atmosphere of the viewing room was enough to reduce them to an inarticulate silence, a nod or a shake of the head or, at best, a few muttered words, most frequently: ‘Did he (or she) suffer?’

Somerton certainly suffered. But not for long, Joe estimated, staring down at his corpse. The pathologist in charge of the case who had officiated at midnight the night before had returned, he now told Joe, straight after breakfast to continue his examination. Le docteur Moulin was wearing the white overall, cap and gloves of a surgeon and was as cheerful as the depressing circumstances allowed. His intelligent brown eyes were the only source of warmth in the whole building, Joe thought. He was expecting Joe and looked only briefly at his identification before leading him past three other livid corpses laid out in a row to a marble-topped, channelled table where the body of the Englishman was laid out.

‘Were you gentlemen acquainted?’ asked the doctor, extending a hand to Somerton.

‘Not in the slightest. I’m here to investigate, not identify. He has been named by the man who discovered the body and his papers confirm his identity. The widow, Lady Somerton, is on her way and will attend this evening to sign any documents you may present. Before she turns up, I’d like to familiarize myself with the details, so that I can guide her through it, if you have enough to go on . . .’

‘Oh, yes. More to do, of course, but peripheral to the police enquiry, I’d say. I shall be obtaining a toxicology report, checking stomach contents – the usual – but the cause of death I think you’d agree is pretty obvious.’

Joe stared with pursed lips at the body laid out on the slab. He was struck by the way in which the hair and moustache, retaining their luxuriance and dark colour, were at odds with the waxen flesh from which the humanity seemed to have drained away. What was the dead man telling him? What could he possibly learn from the already decaying features of a man he’d never seen alive, had never heard speaking? Joe recalled a phrase the usherette had used in her statement: ‘
Visage de fouine
.’ Weasel-faced. Yes, he could see why she might say that. The sharp nose and chin in a narrow face offered a contrast with George’s broad and handsome features. The expression and animation of the living man would also most probably have coloured the girl’s impression of him and on this Joe would never be able to form an opinion. The eyes were closed, the thin, well-shaped lips set in a tight line.

The five franc tip, Joe remembered. What a frightful epitaph!

The knife slash that had killed him went from ear to ear. Cleaned and closed, it was still a fearsome sight. Joe could only imagine the shattering effect on George of discovering his friend – dead? dying? – with blood pumping by the pint from the gaping wound.

‘Have you any views on how the wound was administered?’ Joe asked.

‘I have. Dealt from behind, I’d say. I understand the victim was watching a performance at the Folies? In a box either by himself or accompanied by a young lady? A question for the police to clear up. Obviously, if she were sitting or standing next to him the lady would be drenched in blood. When she went to the
vestiaire
to retrieve her coat, someone would have noticed her state.’

‘He’s quite a tall man, the victim?’

‘About five feet ten inches and, though he must be in his mid-fifties, his musculature is in good condition.’

‘Difficult to subdue a man of that height unless you are yourself taller and more powerful, you’re thinking?’

‘As are you, Commander. He’s hardly likely to oblige by standing there, sticking out his chin and closing his eyes! A man like this would have fought back against a
perceived
assailant.’ The pathologist pointed to the hands and forearms. ‘No signs of wounds received during self-defence, you see. No attempt to repel a knifeman. It’s my theory that his attacker came up behind him while he was still seated, seized him – possibly left hand over his mouth – and slashed and sawed his throat from ear to ear. Standing behind your victim, you would not be showered by his blood which would be projected out and down. You then allow the body to flop forward on to the padded edge of the booth where the obliging upholstery absorbs most of the litres of blood. Velvet, quilted over cotton wadding, I understand.’

‘And if you’re a careful killer,’ added Joe, ‘and I’m sure our man was just that, you’d have taken off your opera cloak and put it on the peg by the door, murdered your victim and then put your concealing cloak on again before leaving. If you’ve timed it just right, your exit will coincide with the moment everyone was streaming out of the theatre.’ He knew that moment. Everyone preoccupied with his or her own immediate plans . . . taxis, supper, romance. No one wanted to catch the eye of a stranger in the crowd.

Joe went to fetch a chair, placed it at the foot of the marble slab and sat down on it. ‘Doctor, would you mime the action of the killer as you judge it to have been carried out? I’ll be the victim.’

‘Of course. And, in the pursuit of authenticity – a moment – I’ll just fetch the weapon.’

Moulin bustled away into his office, returning with a cardboard box filled with material conserved from the corpse. ‘We’re holding all this until the police and the magistrate are satisfied. You know the routine?’ He waited for Joe’s nod and went on: ‘The personal effects will be returned to the next of kin. Not sure they’ll want to keep this as a souvenir though,’ he said, producing from a paper bag a dagger with an eight-inch blade and a carved ivory hilt.

‘I’d like the lady to take a look, if she can bear it,’ Joe said. ‘Just in case she can identify it as her husband’s own property.’

‘You can take hold of it,’ said Moulin, offering it by the point of the blade. ‘It’s been tested for fingerprints and cleaned up. No prints, by the way. It had been wiped clean – just some unusable smears left.’

Joe took the object with distaste. ‘Afghan.’ He turned the blade flat and slid it over the back of his hand, slicing through a few hairs. ‘Sharp as a razor.’

‘It would need to be to go quickly through such an amount of muscle and gristle. The throat is not an easy option. But it is quick and sure. Think of pig-killing. In my village they always go for the throat. And a pig’s flesh has more or less the same density and resilience as a man’s. This knife went upstairs to the laboratory for inspection. Under the microscope you can see the signs of the use of a sharpening implement on the blade. Very recent sharpening was done. Perhaps with the killing in mind?’

‘Ah? A workmanlike tool. Not a cheap blade but not lavishly produced for display, I’d say. It’s not as ornate as many I’ve seen. An inch or so shorter than most. Discreet. An efficient killing blade.’