Barbara Cleverly - Folly Du Jour

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.’