Barbara Cleverly - Folly Du Jour

‘Put his own life in danger, of course, by his assertions and we had to take him away directly to a place of safety and hold him in reserve for the trial. He stated that the girl had indeed come out of the CO’s quarters but thrown out screaming and bleeding and in great distress — by Somerton himself. Some of his men had gathered round on hearing the din and our recruit had been horrified to hear his instructions: “She’s all yours, lads, if you can be bothered!”

‘Our chap ran away and hid and no one was aware that he’d seen anything, but he was able to give a full list of those involved. We had the names and rolled it up from there. The men had bragged about it to each other openly afterwards. They never knew exactly who had shopped them. It wasn’t difficult to get a confession from most of them.’

‘And you left him alive, George?’ said Joe quietly.

‘A court martial was held and he was found guilty. Kicked out of the army with every ounce of parade and scorn they could muster. A pariah for the rest of his days. I thought that was punishment enough. At the time. I wish now I’d had the bugger shot. I could have arranged it.’

‘Why did you hold off?’ Bonnefoye wanted to know.

‘The fellow had a wife and young son back home. And, on the whole, a cashiering makes less of a splash than an execution.’ He sighed. ‘Discretion, always discretion.’

Suddenly angry, he burst out: ‘And now see where discretion and pity have landed me! In danger of losing my head because the silly bugger’s got his comeuppance! And I didn’t even have the satisfaction of plunging a dagger into his snake’s heart! It’s a thankless task you two fellows have got on your hands. If you find out who ordered up this assassination I shall have to ask you to congratulate him before you slip the cuffs on.’

‘He didn’t kill Somerton, did he?’ Bonnefoye commented when Sir George, finally exhausted, had excused himself and gone off to his room.

‘What makes you change your mind?’

‘At the end, when he lost his temper and spoke without restraint. . I believed him when he said he would have plunged the dagger into the man’s heart. He would have done just that. Quick and soldierly. He’d quite forgotten for the moment that Somerton had died from a gash from ear to ear. I can’t see Sir George sawing away like a pork butcher to bleed a man to death, can you?’

‘No, I can’t. But I’ll tell you what, Bonnefoye — the wretched man’s gone off to bed leaving us with a mass of things to do tomorrow. I say, will you. .?’

‘Yes. I’ve arranged for a deputy to take my place and bring me notes of the conference afterwards. I’ll be of far better use to international crime-fighting if I pursue this case actively. We’ll allocate tasks in the morning. . Though I leave the Embassy to you — I think you have the entrée!’

‘And, speaking of entrées — your evening, Bonnefoye. How did you get on in the boulevard du Montparnasse?’

‘Ah, yes! Mount Parnassus, home of Apollo and the Muses! Well, there was music and verse, certainly, but it wasn’t at all classical. The address Francine Raissac gave you turned out to be a jazz café. And, you know, Joe, I’d have gone in there anyway! The music I heard as I was passing was irresistible. The performers were a mixture of black and white. There was a guitar but a guitar played very fast, a violin and a clarinet and something else I can’t remember. . a saxophone? Odd assortment of instruments — you’d swear they only just met and put it together. But brilliant! And the crowd was loving it.’

‘Did it have a name, your café?’ asked Joe, intrigued.

‘Oh Lord! Some animal. . they’re all called after birds or animals, have you noticed? Le Perroquet. . Le Boeuf sur le Toit. . L’Hirondelle. . Le Lapin Agile. . And here’s another one — Le Lapin Blanc — that was it. It’s a bit further out than the Dôme and not as far as the Closerie des Lilas.’

‘What sort of people were in the crowd? Did you know any of them?’

‘No one on our books, if that’s what you mean. Upright citizens, I’d say. Large number of Americans — you’d expect it in that part of Paris. Poets, painters, photographers and their models and muses all packing the place out. Sixth arrondissement bohemian, to use an old-fashioned word! But living up to it — you know, a bit self-conscious and not the real thing. Every client looking over his shoulder spotting the latest outrageous artist. And every outrageous artist looking over his shoulder spotting the mouchards from the police anti-national department. Who’s likely to be snitching on them ? The local commissariat is still on the alert for extreme views of one sort or another. Marxism, Fascism, intellectualism. Dadaism. Is that a word? They especially don’t like that! We’re supposed to be on the watch for it. Not sure what we’re expected to do with it if we find it. .’

‘Anyone spot you ?’

‘No, indeed! I thought I blended in rather well. And no one was making inflammatory statements. The clientele weren’t annoying anyone when I was there. Usual mixture of thrill-seekers and thrill-providers. Well-heeled but quirky. Silk scarves rather than ties, two-tone shoes, little black dresses and cocktail hats — you’d have felt very much at home, Joe.’

‘I’d never wear a cocktail hat to a café,’ muttered Joe.

‘Unless you were going on somewhere. No. . the seediest customers were a couple of gigolos. . nothing too flamboyant. . and a pair of politicians. The rest were businessmen, rich tourists and poseurs, I’d say. It’s obviously the place to be seen this month.’

‘Nothing unusual? No dope? No under-the-counter absinthe?’

‘None that I noticed and I notice more than most. The only odd thing, and it didn’t occur to me until I was on the point of leaving, was that two of the men had gone off into the back quarters, separately, and neither had come out again. I followed the second of them after a discreet interval. Cloakrooms, as you’d expect. The gentlemen’s accommodation was impressive — as good as a top hotel — and I’d assume the ladies’ was of equal comfort. Nothing untoward going on. The man I was pursuing was not in the room. He’d disappeared. Alongside the cloakrooms was a carpeted staircase.’

‘You didn’t resist?’

‘Whistling casually, I followed on up to a landing. A table with a lavish display of flowers and three closed doors. No numbers. They each had a — fanlight? — a pane of glass over the top. Well, I judge the management have some sort of mirror system in place because the middle door opened at once, before I’d even knocked, and a maître d’hôtel type appeared. Large, ugly, unwelcoming but exquisitely polite. Well trained. He sent me straight back downstairs. I was trespassing on private property, apparently.’

‘Some sort of house of ill repute, are you thinking? A house of assignation?’

‘Yes. Something in the nature of the Sphinx which is close by — just off the boulevard by the cemetery. There’s a call for it. Tourists seeking thrills and well able to pay over the odds for their indulgence. And citizens come over from the affluent Right Bank into the Latin Quarter in search of a slight frisson of danger, a whiff of spice, but not the out and out dissolution on offer round every corner in Montmartre. Another attraction is that the maisons d’illusion of this type guarantee anonymity. From a perfectly innocent meeting place, thronged with people — like the jazz club — clients present themselves, are checked and gain entrance through an antechamber. They leave through a different door. All very discreet. You could run into your brother-in-law who’s an archdeacon and you needn’t blush for your presence there. You’d be just another fan of that wonderful saxophonist.’