Barbara Cleverly - Folly Du Jour

‘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.

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.”’