Barbara Cleverly - Folly Du Jour

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.