Barbara Cleverly - Folly Du Jour

The receptionist at the Hotel Ambassador greeted him and told him a telephone message had just arrived for him. Joe took the note. A brief one from Bonnefoye.

We have Wilberforce. Has agreed to meet Fourier at 11.30. Be there!

Joe telephoned to congratulate Bonnefoye on his speed of performance.

‘Not difficult! He was at the third hotel on our list. Having breakfast. Confirms he was at the theatre that night and says he’ll be pleased to be of help. I’ll see you both at Staircase A?’

Joe, freshly bathed, shirted and suited, met Bonnefoye at the entrance to police headquarters and waited with him for Jennings’ taxi to drop him off. The man stepping out was easily identified by his English overcoat, bowler hat and rolled umbrella. Bonnefoye suppressed a snort of laughter at the image of propriety the man presented as Joe stepped forward to enquire: ‘Mr Wilberforce Jennings, I presume? How do you do, sir. Commander Sandilands of Scotland Yard liaising with the Police Judiciaire. May I introduce my colleague, Inspector Bonnefoye?’

Jennings relaxed on hearing Joe’s suave voice and shook hands with each man.

‘This is to do with the killing at the theatre, night before last, eh? What? Not sure I can be of much help. I know people always say they saw nothing but, in this case, it’s absolutely true! I saw nothing of the killing, that is!’

Joe allowed him to chatter on nervously as they crossed the courtyard. These forbidding surroundings would give anyone the jitters — even a man fortified by a bowler and a brolly. At the door to Staircase A, he turned to Jennings, reassurance in his voice. ‘Don’t be alarmed, sir. Just a few questions to be put to you by the French Chief Inspector in charge of the case. He’s obliged to cover all bases, you understand? Explore all avenues.’

Jennings nodded vigorously to indicate he understood this calming drivel.

‘Many people are being interviewed — one of them may have seen something he was not aware that he had seen. Just answer the questions carefully. I will be on hand to translate.’

Chairs, Joe noted, had been provided in Fourier’s office. The files and papers were aligned in rows. After introductions all round, he and Bonnefoye settled in a group with Jennings between them, facing Fourier and a sergeant who was taking notes at his elbow.

‘I say! However did you know I was there? Clever of you to find me! I shall have to hope my wife is less vigilant than the French police, eh? What? I read about this sorry affair in the papers. Fellow Englishman knifed to death, they’re saying. And that’s the extent of my knowledge, I’m afraid. I’ve never met the dead fellow. I was in the stalls. Thought you might like to see my ticket stub.’

Fourier looked carefully at the number on the ticket. He took a pencil and a sheet of paper and in a few quick strokes sketched out a floor plan of the theatre. He placed it on the desk in front of Jennings. ‘Can you confirm you were sitting where I have marked an X?’

‘Yes. You’ve got it exactly!’ said Jennings. ‘I say — you know your way about, Chief Inspector! A regular yourself at the Folies, are you then?’

Joe didn’t attempt a translation.

‘I now add two boxes,’ said Fourier, supplying them. ‘Take my pencil and mark in the box where you understand the murder to have taken place.’

Jennings obliged.

‘Well done! Quite correct! Box B.’ Fourier’s attempt at bonhomie was unconvincing. ‘Now, tell us who and what you observed in that box.’

Jennings’ account was disappointing. He was quite obviously doing his best but his best was not pleasing Fourier. An unknown man (dark-haired), an unknown girl (fair-haired), had been noted before the lights went out and again when the lights came on again in the interval. Between and after those times — nothing of interest.

‘Of course, had one only known, one would have. .’ Jennings burbled. ‘Tell you what, though! Why don’t you ask the chap opposite? May I?’ He took the pencil again and marked Box A. ‘Now, if you can find me , I’m jolly certain you can find him. He had a perfect view of the deceased. And he knew him,’ he announced.

‘And I understand the witness in Box A was known to you also?’ said Fourier with mild interest.

‘I say! This is impressive! Yes, he is known to me. Only seen him once or twice since we were at school together — reunions and so on — but there’s no mistaking that nose. Jardine. It was George Jardine. I’ll bet my boots. Something important in India, I believe. Showing off as usual. In the Royal Box. But where else? Wouldn’t find him rubbing shoulders with hoi polloi in the stalls.’

‘And you think he was acquainted with the man opposite?’

‘Oh, yes. Undoubtedly. They were talking to each other.’

Fourier stirred uneasily. ‘Across the width of the theatre, sir? Talking?’ His strong witness was showing signs of cracking. He looked to Joe to correct his interpretation but Joe shook his head.

‘“Communicating”, I ought perhaps to have said. Exchanging messages. Just the sort of showy-off Boy Scout stuff Jardine would have indulged in. He always enjoyed an audience, you know. Incapable of fastening his shoelaces without turning round to acknowledge the plaudits of the crowd.’

Joe summarized this and added, ‘Fourier, may I?’

Fourier spread his hands, amused to delegate.

‘Would you mind, Jennings, demonstrating the form this communication took?’

‘Certainly. As the lights were being lowered. .’ Jennings got to his feet and went to stand, back to the wall, looking down at an imagined audience. His face froze in a parody of George’s lordly style. ‘He put on his white gloves. .’

On went the gloves.

‘And then he did this sort of tick-tack nonsense with his hands.’

The hands flashed rhythmically, fingers stabbed, thumbs were extended.

‘You’d have thought he was leading the Black and White Minstrels in the show at the end of the pier. People were beginning to think he was the first act.’

‘And did the man opposite take any notice? Did he reply?’

‘Yes. Same sort of thing but a shorter response and he wasn’t wearing gloves so it wasn’t so obvious. I thought, at that moment, it was a game. Yes, I was sure it was a game. He was laughing, joining in the fun.’

‘You thought ?’ asked Joe, picking up the tense.

‘Yes. Changed my mind when I saw the last gesture though!’

‘Describe it,’ said Fourier.

‘He did this,’ said Jennings.

Face twisted into a threatening mask, he gave a flourish of the hand and trailed the forefinger slowly across his throat.

No one spoke. The sergeant stopped writing. Fourier turned to him and advised: ‘Sergeant, why don’t you put down — “The suspect was observed at this point to make a life-threatening gesture announcing his intention of cutting the victim’s throat.”?’

The sergeant noted it down.

Jennings knew enough French to take alarm at the twist Fourier had put on his words. ‘Look here! That’s a bit strong, don’t you know! Sandilands, put him right! I wasn’t implying that. . Oh, Good Lord! He wasn’t in my House but I didn’t come here to drop old Jardine in the quagmire. .’

‘Did you not?’ drawled Joe. ‘Well, you’ve made a very good fist of it. But before we ask you to check and sign your statement, just tell us, will you — what was the reaction of the second man playing this game? Did he appear alarmed? Did he seem menaced by Jardine’s gesture?’

‘Well, no. Not at all. Most odd. He laughed. Damn near slapped his thigh, he thought it was so funny.’

* * *

When Jennings had been thanked and escorted from the premises by the sergeant, Fourier turned to Joe and Bonnefoye with a pitying smile. ‘The case firms up, it seems,’ he said. ‘And unless you two are about to produce some late entrant like a jack-in-the-box to surprise me. .’ He left a pause long enough to annoy the younger men. ‘No? Well, there is one more amusing little excursion I’ve laid on for you.’